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Well, I knew one thing. If the local news ever came to interview me after he’d been caught for some massive spree, I wasn’tabout to be one of those shocked innocents who was all, Who,thatguy? He was so nice and neighborly! He moved a piece of heavy furniture for me once. Kept to himself. Polite as could be. Would wave when he saw me outside.
Was he nice, or performing niceness? Had moving the desk been a way to make me feel subtly indebted to him? Secrecy was a practical necessity if you had something to hide; politeness was social chloroform.
They say all serial killers on some levelwantto be caught, and that was the only way to explain the wave.
“ ‘... Old neighbors viewed each other strangely, and as strangers,’ ” I said softly to myself.
From behind me, Conner laughed. “If anyone is acting strangely here, it’s you. This is a real ‘ “ ’Tis,” replied Aunt Helga’ moment you’re in.”
I’d been quoting Truman Capote’s classicIn Cold Blood; trust my brother to answer with a reference to one of our favoriteSimpsonsepisodes when we were kids.
“We may as well start with this room,” I said, letting the blinds drop again. “I’ll grab the garbage bags.”
THREE
BY THE TIMEConner left, we’d made pretty good progress in the living room. It was still filled with junk, but at least the stuff was stacked somewhat neatly and organized by what could be donated and what probably just needed to be thrown away.
After that, it was off to the grocery store to stock up on some food. I drove a few miles away to a store where my fatherhadn’tcollapsed, and then took longer to unload everything into the house than I’d thought, so I was wiped when I finished. My best-laid plans to start working on my dissertation flew out the window, when all I wanted to do was nap.
Except that just as I was drifting off into sleep, a sharp rap came at the door, jerking me back awake. It couldn’t be Conner this time—no way would he come back to domorework today, and he’d ended up taking the case of Mountain Dew with him, so even the promise of that neon green liquid wasn’t a lure.
I opened the door just in time to see a delivery truck pull away,and glanced down to see a package at my feet. My dad had ordered a lot of shit—was it possible he had some kind of automatic subscription that needed to be canceled now that he was gone?
But no. The label on the box clearly readSamuel Dennings, with an address two digits off mine.
The Midnight Mover.
The navy blue truck was back in his driveway, so before I could think twice, I marched over there and knocked on his door. I could’ve just left the box, but that wouldn’t be quite as satisfying. Now that I had a name for this dude, I wanted to get a better look close-up.
I was about to knock again when he finally opened the door. I wasn’t prepared for how small the distance between us would be, and I took an automatic step back, holding the box between us like a barrier.
He was still wearing the khaki pants, his more formal shirt now unbuttoned and a little askew, the sleeves rolled up just past his elbows. His dark hair hung over one eye, but I could see his gaze sweeping over me, taking me in. At least this time I wasn’t wearing coffee-stained pajama pants. I’d put on what was essentially my uniform that morning—black leggings, black T-shirt, my long hair in a messy bun, and winged eyeliner because fuck it why not. Still, I resisted the urge to tug my shirt down, make sure it wasn’t showing a flash of belly.
Not that I cared what he thought.
“I believe this is yours, Samuel,” I said, holding out the box.
He paused for a moment before taking it. I couldn’t help notice that behind him, his house was the same layout as my dad’s but flipped, and a hell of a lot cleaner. There didn’t seem to be anyneed to say anything else, so I turned to go. Then, from behind me, I heard a clearing of his throat, and a single word.
“What?” I asked, turning back.
“Sam,” he said. “My name is just Sam.”
“Well,just Sam,” I said. “If youjust putyour house number on your mailbox, the mix-up probably wouldn’t have happened.”
That sounded really bitchy, the way it came out. I hadn’t meant it to. But then again, how had Ithoughtit would land, a criticism of this guy’s mailbox, of all things? It had just been so unsettling, being back in my dad’s house, and I felt on edge all the time. Still, there was no reason to take it out on this guy. If anything, it was a good idea to stay on your neighbors’ good side. I’d read that story about the New Jersey family who received all those cryptic notes from “the Watcher” until eventually they had to move out.
I took a breath, and tried to start again.
“Thank you, by the way,” I said. Even that came out grudging and a little churlish. I gestured vaguely toward my car, and his brows knitted together as he stared at me. “For helping with the desk.”
He leaned against the doorway, and I tried to ignore that he was actually kind of hot. He was turning the box over and over in his hands, and the movement made the muscles of his forearms flex under the light dusting of dark hair. Maybe it was my recent celibacy talking, but I felt my palms going clammy.
“You’re Phoebe,” he said finally.
Okay, maybe he needed a new nickname. The Sidewalk Snoop. The Psychic Stalker. You’d have to say that one aloud to really get the alliterative effect, though.
He must’ve seen my confused expression, because he blew his hair out of his eyes, giving a self-deprecating shake of his head. Turned out his eyes were blue. “I was at the funeral,” he said. “Back in January. I’m sorry about your dad.”
