Dark Corners READY FOR PRC (15 page)

“How have things been going?” he asked pleasantly.

“That seems like a loaded question at the moment.”

“Are you writing anything new?”

“Actually, yeah, I have started a new book.”

“Can you tell me about it?”

“How do you know I write?”

“I have my sources.”

“Hmph.” I'm sure he had plenty of sources all right—all he had to do was ask anyone However, a nagging feeling that I shouldn’t let this go stayed with me. “Did you use the Internet? You don’t know my last name, do you?”

“Reynolds—again, I have my sources.”

“Why the effort? You barely know me and I only begrudgingly spoke with you in the first place. Why are you bothering to find anything out about me?”

“What can I say, I find you unlike anyone I have ever known.”

“And what exactly did you discover?”

“Well, you're an author. You’ve written a handful of books. Your husband died and there was some suspicion in regards to your involvement.”

“All true.”  He had definitely been talking to the people in this town.

“And it explains a lot.”

“What do you mean?”

“The way you approach things. The attitude you’ve taken since meeting me, the suspicion.”

“I just don’t understand why you approached me.  Or, for that matter, why you continue to pursue conversations with me when I'm so obviously against them?”

“Well, at least, I can’t say I find you boring.”

I looked at him for what I knew was an uncomfortably long time, but it never made him uneasy. He looked back at me as if he were enjoying himself until I broke eye contact. Again, this reminded me of Danny. He had a way of always making me look away first, like he saw past me and into the depths of my mind. When I first met Danny, I found it incredibly unsettling. Over time I got more used to it, but now Grant was having the exact same affect.

I realized I had drifted into my own thoughts too long for polite conversation when Grant penetrated my own musings.

“What are you thinking about?” He looked genuinely interested.

“You remind me of someone.”

“Who?”

“My husband.”

“Thank you.”

“You don’t find it a bit unnerving that you remind me of a man I supposedly killed?”

“No, if he was your husband, you probably liked him—therefore I'm glad I remind you of him. It'll improve my chances of getting you to like me. I don’t believe you killed anyone.”

It made me a little sad that I could be sitting across from this handsome doctor who said all the right things and still I could think of no one but Danny.

“It’s very sweet that you want me to
like
you, but I'm not dating.”

His smile gave me the impression he was trying not to laugh. I found it nearly impossible to decipher anything of what Grant was thinking. “Good, neither am I. We can be friends.”

“That’s very unlikely.”

“Well, I'm not afraid to take a little gamble.”

I finished the last of my coffee and gathered my purse. I laid money on the table next to my half eaten pie.

“I have a lot of work to do. I should go.”

He nodded.  “I'll see you soon, Ella.”

I walked away, shaking my head at him. What a strange fellow.

It was a lovely day outside, perfect for walking. Going past the happy neighborhoods where nothing bad ever happened, I let my imagination run wild.

Lost in my daydreams, I almost missed my street. A shabby truck parked a little bit down the road from my house caught my eye. Anyone sitting in it would have a picturesque view of the house and my comings and goings. I had never seen a truck like this on my street. As I drew nearer I noticed someone was sitting in it, waiting. The anticipation of seeing the mystery driver grew inside of me until I wanted to run up to the truck and scream, “Why are you watching my house?”

I wrung my hands nervously as I continued my controlled approach. The person in the truck must have noticed me. The engine started quickly and the tires squealed around the cul-de-sac. The driver went by with an arm raised, blocking his face from view. I stared after the truck wondering if that was the man who killed Danny. Eventually I tore myself away and headed into the house, edgy and still glancing behind me.

Locking and double checking the door behind me, I felt agitated like something was going to jump out at any moment. In hopes of relaxing a little before I sat down to write, I got myself a glass of water. Something moving across the backyard caught my eye. I moved closer to the kitchen window to get a better look. Mr. Sexton was walking through the trees towards the fence separating our properties. I thought about yelling at him, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to initiate conversation with him. He looked up and our eyes met for a moment. I stepped back from the window, my heart thudding.  I felt like a child who had been caught spying. It only took a second to bully myself into stepping back towards the window to make sure he actually left.

He was gone; relief flooded me. Shutting my eyes for a brief moment I chastised myself for being weak. This was my property. I had every right to go outside and let him have a piece of my mind. My eyes opened to a horrible face pressed and contorted against the windowpane. A scream ripped from my throat as I stumbled backwards into the center island. Mr. Sexton's laughter drifted into the house from the other side of the glass, a sound that was every bit as infuriating as it was ominous. Fear fueled a white-hot anger inside of me.

“Get out of here,” I bellowed. “I'm calling the police”

I picked up the phone with shaking hands and dialed Detective Troy’s cell phone number. He answered on the second ring.

“Troy.”

“Hey,” I said and then my mind went blank. I had no idea what to tell him. Was I being foolish for letting Mr. Sexton get to me with his crazy antics?

“Hi.”

“This is Ella … Ella Reynolds.” I blushed like a school girl. Part of me wanted to hang up the phone and pretend this never happened. Another part of me demanded an ally.

“I know who you are.” He laughed. “What’s going on?”

He took my silence as a clue that everything was not alright.

“Are you all right?” His voice was suddenly lower and more policeman like.

“I’m fine—I’m sorry. I shouldn't have called. I'm overreacting.”

“About what?” His voice hummed with concern.

“I’ll tell you later. Don't worry about it—”

He cut me off. “What exactly are you overreacting about?”

“It's not important really. My crazy neighbor was staring at me through my window trying to frighten me—obviously it worked. No harm done, though. I'm fine. Really.”

“I'll be there in five minutes.”

“No, no—I'll see you … when I see you. I should go, get some work done.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

Gabriel sighed, “Okay, if you’re certain—but call me immediately if you see him again.”

“I will Thanks. . . .”

I hung up feeling like a jackass. Did I seriously just call him to tattle on my neighbor? Making sure all my doors and windows were closed and locked, I found solace at my computer. I stared at the pages I’d written and imagined the pages I still needed to fill. It was overwhelming at the moment, even insurmountable. Another memory clawed at the edge of my consciousness, fighting itself free. This muse was harder on me than most; it flashed my own life before my eyes.

Danny and I worked tirelessly on renovating the house. Despite promising to try to get back into my routine, I couldn’t focus until the house was complete, until it felt more like my own. We redid the bedroom, the kitchen, both bathrooms, the family room. . . . It was slow going and as with any joint projects, there was more than the occasional argument and much bickering.

After a long, hard day of sanding floors, we were both exhausted and ready to collapse into bed. Danny came out of the bathroom and flopped down on his side .I got up slightly annoyed that I had to turn off the light when he was the last one to bed. The sound of the toilet running in the bathroom furthered my irritation.  Couldn’t he do anything? I went into the bathroom to shake the handle only to discover it wasn’t just running it was overflowing.

“Danny!”

His muffled voiced came back at me. “What?”

“The toilet is overflowing!”

 He came in with a weary expression, grumbling about why I couldn’t fix it myself. I ran to the downstairs bathroom for the plunger and found it was flooding too—all three bathrooms were. The mess was catastrophic. Danny had to turn off the water and we spent the rest of the night cleaning the mess up before it ruined all the work we’d done that day.

The next morning we called a plumber who discovered an astronomical amount of candy wrappers shoved into the pipes. We thanked him and paid for his time.

“How the hell did that happen” I asked Danny as soon as the plumber left.

Danny was lying on the couch, which had been moved into the hallway while we working on the living room.

“No idea. I hardly ever eat candy. I didn’t do it.”

“I never said you did. I just know I didn’t do it either. Don't you think it's strange? The house has been empty for how long? And the bathrooms worked fine until last night.”

“You're thinking about this way too hard. Obviously some kids got into the house before we moved here and flushed all the wrappers as a joke.”

“That's the lamest practical joke I've ever heard.”

“I never said they were bright, just bored.”

And that was just one of many setbacks we endured during the renovation. The constant onslaught of missing tools and flickering lights only added to the tension we both felt. We called electrician after electrician, but no one seemed to be able to fix the lights—though they were all sure when they left that we would have no more problems. We found paint cans we were sure we had closed, open and dry the next morning. It’s no wonder our best friends were the people who owned the hardware store; we practically lived there. 

On top of all of this, I was hardly able to sleep. Every night I’d fall asleep only to be woken by someone saying my name and occasionally laughing.  Danny was never disturbed by noises and never remembered hearing a thing the next morning. He always kissed my forehead and said there was never a dull moment in my overactive imagination, which of course irritated me royally. Finally, the lack of sleep and the constant setbacks with our home repair did inspire me to get out of the house to finish revising my book. I began to spend a good portion of every day on my laptop at Molly’s Cafe. It was a nice break from the house—and from Danny.

The waitresses seemed to enjoy the fact that I was writing in their diner. They refilled my cup often, trying to catch a glimpse of the book, occasionally saying something about making history because nothing productive was ever accomplished in this diner. Molly would even sit with me and reminisce about what it was like to be young and in love. She told me I was welcome to use her tales in my books if I liked. Unsure whether she was hinting that I should make the books I wrote less dark, or if she had no idea about the types of books I wrote, I always smiled and thanked her. I enjoyed my time in the cafe. It made me feel more at home, and the people in town started to become friendlier as my face became more familiar.