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I have the eye of a sniper, so I notice minute details. I notice things others don’t.
I’ve been watching Dani now for a while. From a distance, of course. But I like to think I’ve gotten to know her.
I’ve seen the way she buries her head in her hands when she thinks no one is looking. The way she sings and dances in the kitchen when her daughter’s tucked into bed, off-key and with abandon, kicking up her heels and crying freely with lyrics that move her.
I wanted to see her up close. I want to watch her up close when she tucks her hair behind her ear, nervously bites her lip, or even sighs and squeezes her eyes shut together. I wanted to see her in her element, and not just at her house where she wanders around aimlessly, watering her plants for the umpteenth time, putting toys away until there's not a single item out of place, washing dishes with military precision before loading them into her dishwasher, as if somehow, if everything is clean, and perfect, and flawless… maybe she’ll have some control.
I’ve watched Dani as if my life depended on it, but one question remains: I need to know if she loved him. I need to know if I took the life of a man she gave her heart to.
Maybe it’s self-torture. But I like the truth. I need the truth.
If I find out she did, I’m walking away and never coming back.
I look down at the bag of groceries in my hand. Peanut butter, some of those crackers she likes to eat that she only gets when they're on sale, probably because they're five bucks a box. Fresh blueberries from a farm stand downtown. Double chocolate chip muffins, Irish butter, a wedge of Manchego cheese.
Maybe I shouldn't have been so precise with this particular bag because I don't want her to suspect anything.
I walk easily under the motion sensor on her porch, aware of the fact that my sweep of her house has shown she has zero video surveillance and hardly any safety measures in place.
All that happens is a flicker of a light before it goes off again, but I know she's dead asleep by now anyway, likely curled up in bed next to little Emmy.
I place the bag of groceries on the front porch. Stoop, when a sound catches my attention. The snap of a twig and a rustle of leaves. I quickly slink back into the shadows and look behind me.
I hold my breath, waiting. But no one comes. Half a minute later, a dog with no collar comes into view, sniffing around the porch. "Get the fuck out of here,” I mutter. “That’s not for you."
He stares at me belligerently. Jesus.
“Go,” I repeat. I start toward him and he takes off.
"Is someone there?" I dive back into the shadows when she opens the door. My heartbeat stalls at the sight of her standing in a faded nightshirt, no bra, her full breasts barely covered. She looks so wholesome and gorgeous, I want to gather her up in my arms and kiss the bare top of each breast.
"Spotty, is that you again?" she asks. I stifle a snort. I guess Spotty is the dog. She takes a step onto the porch, and halts when her foot hits the bag.
"My gosh,” she whispers. Is she surprised there's another grocery delivery? Is she scared that I'm able to come onto her porch without her ever hearing me? Or is it something else?
The light from behind her illuminates her hair, her face cast in shadow. But I know that signature move of hers, where she lifts her hand to cover her mouth.
She bends on one knee and gently goes through each item in the bag, tracing them with the tip of her finger.
"I don't know who's out there!" she says, louder than I expect. I jump then hold my place in stillness. "These deliveries are becoming very personal, and I just want to say… thank you.” She gathers the bag up in her arms, turns around and walks back in. But this time, the lock slides into place.
Good girl.
She shouldn't be happy that somebody is sneaking up on her porch, giving her groceries. She should be setting up fucking surveillance cameras, trying to figure out who's doing it. She's way too trusting, and ridiculously naïve.
I want to open that door back up and shake her.
Of course I don't, though, because it's only me. And I want her to have these groceries, and those gift cards I tucked into a card at the bottom of the bag.
I quietly tiptoe to the side of her house, so I can look in the kitchen window without being noticed.
She’s unpacking her groceries, a gentle smile playing on her lips with each little item and box.
