The Good Neighbor (25 page)

At least that’s what the note said. His
brother had placed Andy in a hospital where he could be helped by
counselors as much as possible. I think part of the reason also was
so that the doctors and nurses could keep an eye on him. It hadn’t
worked, though. Andy used the sheet from his own bed to hang
himself in the middle of the night.

I missed him. I missed them all. Except for
Bernie.

I stood now in front of Owen’s house. It was
just as I remembered. As I stood there, I expected to see Owen step
out the door, smiling at me like he always did. He would come over
to me and wrap me in his arms. I started to smile, but stopped
myself. I knew that wasn’t going to happen. It would never happen
again. It couldn’t.

Owen was dead. I’d killed him.

I hadn’t wanted to kill him. I’d loved him.
He’d meant so much to me. There was no telling how far our
relationship could’ve gone, how close we could’ve become. If only I
hadn’t heard what I’d heard as I stood outside the door that
day.

I’d heard everything he’d said to Andy. He’d
confessed every crime he’d committed, almost as if he was bragging
about it. I had to do what I did.

I’d listened as he told Andy about the
problems he’d been having with his wife, Holly. He’d known she was
going to leave him. He’d also known that she had been talking to my
Aunt Elaine, who had advised her to leave him. Her advice had been
to seek happiness where it was, and if it wasn’t with Owen, then it
must be somewhere else.

So he’d killed them both.

The elderly lady who had lived across the
street had seen him burying Holly’s body in Louis’ yard. So he
killed her. Fearing that she’d told her husband before he’d gotten
to kill her, he killed him also.

Owen, the man I’d fallen for so quickly, the
man I’d given myself to, the man I’d let be a part of my children’s
lives, had murdered six people. He killed my aunt, he killed his
wife, he killed the elderly couple, he killed Bernie, he killed
Jill, and he buried Holly and Bernie next door in Louis’ yard. He
was about to kill Andy because Andy had seen Bernie’s boots in
Owen’s hallway. Andy had questioned Owen about the boots. Owen
would’ve done anything to avoid being caught.

I’d often wondered if he would’ve killed me.
After all, I’d seen the boots too.

I walked up the steps to Owen’s house one
last time. I looked at the chair where Owen had always sat. I
placed the key in the seat and walked away.

I walked back to my house as the movers
loaded the last of my belongings into the truck.

I made sure the kids were properly wearing
their seatbelts. I got into the driver’s seat and pulled the
seatbelt across my protruding belly and started the car. I wasn’t
going to have any more arguments with myself over who the father of
the child inside me was. I knew it could be Owen or it could be
Bernie. I was hoping it was Owen’s child. But really, was one any
better than the other? Bernie was a sick and twisted rapist. Owen
was a murderer. But he had loved me. And I had loved him.

I chose to believe that Owen and I had
created this baby out of the love we’d had for one another. Had he
not been a serial killer, we would’ve had a great life together.
That was the part that hurt the most. I knew what we could’ve had.
But that was gone. I was now a single mother with two children and
one on the way. And how long would it be before I was able to trust
another man? Probably never.

I looked at my house one more time. I looked
at the fence Owen had built for me and remembered how concerned
he’d been about my safety.

Then, I pulled out of the driveway and onto
Hewitt Street. I drove away, knowing that I would never return
here. I couldn’t. It was too painful. I’d come to this street
innocent. I was leaving as a rape victim and a killer.

No, I would never return to Hewitt
Street.

####

Kimberly A. Bettes was born in Missouri in
1977. Kimberly is the author of four novels and many short stories.
She enjoyed eight months on the New York Times Bestseller List, and
then she woke up. She lives with her husband and son, her snobby
cat, and her dog in the beautiful Ozark Mountains of southeast
Missouri, where she terrorizes residents of a small town with her
twisted tales. It’s there she likes to study serial killers and
knit. She is currently working on her next novel.

Connect with Me
Online
:

Twitter:
http://twitter.com/kimberlyabettes

Facebook:
http://facebook.com/kimberlyabettes

Smashwords:
http://smashwords.com/profile/view/kimberlyabettes

My blog:
http://kimberlyabettes.wordpress.com

When I was fourteen, I picked up the book
Watchers by Dean Koontz, an author unknown to me at the time. I
cracked it open and was mesmerized by the brilliance of the story.
I was unable to put it down until I’d read every last word. I
laughed, I cried, and I fell in love with the story and the style
in which it was written. I was amazed at the way simple words on a
page could evoke such emotion from me. As I closed the book, I
stared off across my bedroom with a goofy smile on my face and I
just knew this was what I was supposed to do.

I spent my summer that year writing my first
novel, Adaptations. I worked my fingers to the bones, typing out
page after page on an old typewriter. I stayed up late, using the
quiet of the night to clack away at the keys. It took nearly two
years for me to finish that novel, as the life of a teenager got in
the way a bit. Between school and keeping up my social life, I
struggled to find time to write.

What was the reward for all that hard work,
you ask. Well, simply put, a full-length novel that, to my
standards at least, is horrible. It’s not a bad story, don’t get me
wrong. But when I look back at it with the experience and wisdom I
have now, I see all the work that it would take to polish it into a
book that suits my standards today. Who knows? Maybe one day, when
I have nothing else to do, perhaps I’ll pull out that possible
diamond in the rough, blow the dust off it, and polish it until it
shines. After all, it will always hold a place in my heart. It’s my
first novel.

My second novel, Annie’s Revenge, was written
a handful of years later. It too is a great story, but as I look
back on it now, I don’t love it as I loved it when I wrote it.
Maybe it’s because I’ve spent more than ten years now handling it.
Or maybe it’s because after all these years, I’ve found my style
and my subject matter, my theme, and it just doesn’t fit. My
husband tells me to throw it away. I can’t do that. I’ve never
thrown away anything I’ve written no matter how horrible it is.
It’s a part of me and is a testament to my thought process at the
time. It too holds a special place in my heart, even if it isn’t
the kind of story I would write today.

In the summer of 2010, I sat down at my
laptop (a far cry from the days of clacking on the keys of an old
typewriter) to write a short story for a novel I’d been toying with
for years, Minutes to Death. Funny thing happened, though. Before
I’d written two full pages, the story had become something totally
different than what I was planning to write. It took on a life of
its own and I knew that it was going to be a novel.

Three weeks later, it was complete. It was my
best work to date, I felt. I couldn’t believe how the story wrote
itself and how little time it took. I emailed each chapter to a
friend as soon as I’d finished it, and was yelled at to write more
more more! I did as I was told, and loved the final product, a
novel called The Good Neighbor.

It’s the summer of 2011 now. I’m working on a
novel called Rage. It is by far the greatest story I’ve ever
written. I love the character and hate what I’m putting him
through. This story tells itself in more ways than I could’ve ever
imagined. I had a list of things I wanted to have happen, and some
of them I just can’t do. Why? Because my main character says so.
And he’s the boss. I’m just here to relate his story to you.

I’ve learned a lot through the years and have
really tightened up my writing. The stuff I turned out years ago
makes me cringe when I read it, while the work I do today
astonishes me. I’m my own worst critic.

I’ve enclosed some excerpts from some of my
other stories. Read them if you like, and please tell me what you
think. You can comment on my blog or my Twitter account or my
Facebook page. All the addresses are listed above.

Thank you for taking the time to read my
work. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing
it. See you next time.

The following is an excerpt from Rage, my
latest novel. Look for the Smashwords Edition in 2011.

Face down on my bed, I buried my face in my
pillow and waited for him to finish.

“Tell Daddy you like it,” he said through
grunts.

I ignored him. The son of a bitch may be
married to my mother, but he was not my daddy. My daddy was
dead.

“Say it, Brian,” he said behind me.

I still ignored him.

He slapped the back of my head. I peeked up
from the pillow and saw his hands, one on each side of my head,
giving him the leverage he needed to slam himself against me as
hard as he wanted.

I stared at his hands. His fingernails were
bitten off far past the tips of his fingers. Faded blue tattoos
spell G-O-O-D across the fingers of his left hand and E-V-I-L
across those of his right. I doubted there’d ever been a time when
his left hand had prevailed.

I tried to stay relaxed. It hurt less that
way. It still hurt like hell, but it hurt less. The pain was still
intense enough to make me want to cry. But there’s no way I’d let
him see me. No way.

I felt him tense and knew it was almost over.
But I also knew that the worst part was getting ready to
happen.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

He went at me harder now, grunting like a
madman. Then, he stiffened and held his position for a few seconds
before collapsing on me.

He was sweaty and panting and crushing me. It
was hard to breathe. Just when I thought I’d pass out from the lack
of air, he got up. I took a deep breath. I heard him zip his jeans
and leave the room.

I lay there for a while, crying silently into
my pillow. When I was all cried out, I got off the bed slowly, my
backside burning. I made my way to the bathroom as quietly as I
could to avoid drawing his attention. I sat on the toilet to rid
myself of his stuff, and then showered. It hurt to do it, but I
scrubbed myself to try to erase any evidence of him.

I hated him. More than I’ve ever hated
anybody. I don’t know why my mother stayed with him. I don’t know
why she ever got with him in the first place.

That wasn’t true. I knew why.

I slowly and quietly made my way across the
hallway and back to my bedroom. It hurt too much to sit, so I lay
on my side and did my homework. My mother wasn’t home and there was
no way I was going to be around him without her.

After struggling through my math, I fell
asleep thinking of all the ways I could kill my step-father.

Monday morning, I woke as usual. I got out of
bed and threw on some clothes that my mom had bought me at a yard
sale. The jeans were too short, showing my ankle, and the shirt
nearly showed the top of my jeans. Most of my clothes fit me wrong,
but I rarely got new clothes.

I stuffed my books into my worn backpack and
headed to the kitchen. We didn’t have much to choose from for
breakfast. I settled for stale cereal. Would’ve been nice if we had
milk, but we didn’t, so I washed it down with a glass of water and
headed out the door.

I walked to school as I always did. It wasn’t
far. About a mile. I could’ve ridden the bus, but two of those
assholes rode the same bus and I didn’t want to be around them any
more than I had to.

I slowed as I got closer to the school. I
just didn’t know how many more times I could drag myself into that
building.

Maybe if it was just the bullies I could
handle it. Or if it was just my failing grades it wouldn’t be so
bad. But it was both. And sometimes, it was just too much to
bear.

I put my books in my locker and hung my
backpack on the hook inside. My first class was basic Algebra with
Mrs. Schmitz. I hated it. I never understood what the teacher was
talking about. Maybe it was because she was German and had a funny
accent. Or maybe it was because she was dyslexic and wrote half the
problems on the board backwards. Either way, I was flunking.

I walked into the room, books in hand. There
were already a few students in their seats. I knew immediately I
was the subject of their conversation. It was obvious the way they
looked at me and giggled.

Stupid girls.

I didn’t really care what they thought of me.
I didn’t like any of them anyway. I only liked one girl, and she
didn’t hang out with the gigglers.

I walked on to my seat, pretending not to
notice their eyes following me. Just like every day.

I sat down and began doodling in my notebook.
I paid no attention as the rest of the class filed in and took
their seats. I barely paid attention when Mrs. Schmitz began
talking about square roots. It wouldn’t have mattered if I gave her
all my attention. I just didn’t get it. That was evident when she
told us to pass our homework papers one person to the left to be
graded.

My paper went to Carly Hanson, the one girl
in the whole school I actually liked. I’d had a crush on her since
we were in third grade. That’s why it was so embarrassing when she
handed me back my paper. I’d missed twelve. That was out of a
possible fifteen. Another F. But I still smiled when I saw that
she’d wrote ‘sorry’ on the paper.