The Guy Next Door

Chapter 1

1

LEIF

I recognize the guy taking his time at the bread aisle.

Like, a weird amount of time.

His complexion is something between ghostly and sickly pale, like he doesn’t spend too much time outside.

Probably around my age—late teens, early twenties.

Short, dirty-blond hair, nearly brown, and spiked in the front.

Guy can’t be over five-five or so, and even that might be a generous guesstimate.

I’m sure that’s the same black hoodie I’ve already seen on him a few times.

What’s his name again? Mom mentioned talking to the Rodgers about him, but for whatever reason, it’s not coming to me.

Feel like it starts with a Z … Zack? No, something less familiar.

Zander?

That’s not it either.

As he scans his bread options, I can’t imagine he has to make a serious decision about white, wheat, or grain. Maybe he needs gluten-free alternatives. Or maybe he has a preferred brand they’re out of, so now he must find an acceptable substitute.

With how he’s fidgeting, rubbing his thumbs across his fingers, I can imagine him being the kind of guy to give too much thought to the type of bread he needs to buy.

Maybe he’s not thinking about bread at all; my mind can drift off from time to time while I’m grocery-shopping.

Because of my previous interactions with him, part of me thinks it’s a little creepy.

That’s a shitty thing to think about someone.

Just because he’s different doesn’t make him creepy.

My parents live in a friendly neighborhood. Most everyone on our street has lived there for over a decade, so we all know each other. We’re the kinds of neighbors who wave and stop on the sidewalk to catch up with each other. This guy has only been renting the Morgans’ place next door for two weeks, so it’s possible he hasn’t had a chance to acclimate to the neighborhood yet. Although, I’ve made every effort to smile and wave if he’s in his yard when I’m driving by. I’ll even try to say hey when I pass him while I’m out for a jog or a walk.

And I get nothing, except maybe a glare.

It’s possible he’s an introvert—the quiet type who spends time staring at bread for a few minutes as his mind wanders. Can’t fault him for that.

He starts to turn, so I look back at the beef, picking up another packet to check the expiration date. I debate if I should try to approach him, maybe start a lighthearted conversation that will make him more receptive to my occasional waving to him in the neighborhood, but I’m not in the mood to get another glare, so I continue with my shopping.

After I finish, I return home. As I’m parking near the garage doors of my parents’ place, my phone starts buzzing. I put the car in Park and check it. Mom.

“There you are,” I answer.

Her voice comes through the Corolla’s speakers: “Are you in the car?”

“Yeah, and you are too now. I wanted to make sure I didn’t miss you again. Gimme a second.”

I get out, and we go through a familiar dance until the car releases her back to my phone.

“How was today?” I practically sing out, pressing against what I know will be a sore subject.

She groans. “Can we start with your day?”

“I was on a jog when you called earlier. Then I swung by the store to pick up some beef for stroganoff tonight. And now I have some meals planned for the week.”

“Please, Leif, don’t tell me about the delicious meals I’m missing. I don’t need any more reasons to miss being home right now.”

I chuckle, though I can hear the sincere exhaustion and pain behind her words.

“Speaking of…how is my dear grandma doing?” I notice one of my reusable bags slipped to the back of the trunk, so I have to really get in there for it.

“Oh, the usual,” Mom replies.

A.k.a. insults, demands, and just plain cruelty.

A little over a month ago, Grandma was diagnosed with stage four breast cancer. In most families, this is when everyone would eagerly join together to aid their fallen loved one. We don’t have that kind of relationship with Linda, who I’m confident is a sociopath. And even with Mom’s boundaries, being the compassionate woman she is, she wasn’t about to let Linda go through this alone—not to mention helping her sister deal with their mother—even if it meant enduring Linda at her worst.

“You’d think she’d be appreciative that her daughter and son-in-law flew out to Indiana to help out,” I say, unable to disguise my irritation.

As I lean into the trunk to grab the bag in the back, my elbow hits one of the overstuffed bags near the edge, and a can tumbles out, thumping as it hits the driveaway. “Great. Dropped the tomato sauce.”

I’m determined to finish what I started, so I grab the bag, pull it out, and collect the others.

“I can call you back when you get the groceries in,” Mom says.

“Are you kidding? If we do that, I might not get ahold of you for another five hours.”

She laughs, and as I turn to find the fallen can, I don’t see it where I heard it drop, so I check down the driveway.

“Weird,” I mutter.

I start looking around when—

“Jesus,” I say, freezing in place.

A guy is standing beside me, his face inches from mine.

I recognize that pale face.

The dirty-blond hair.

That black hoodie.

Goose bumps prick across my flesh as the hairs on my neck stand on end. The surprise has activated a primal response within me—heart racing, adrenaline coursing through my veins.

I’m not even breathing.

He must’ve gotten home right after me.

I wait for him to do or say something, but he just stands there, staring with these intense, steel-blue eyes.

Even though he’s half a foot shorter than me, there’s something frightening about the way he stares, as if he’s putting a curse on me with a look.

“Leif?” Mom asks. “Am I back in the car?”

The guy moves his hand, and I pull away before I notice the can of tomato sauce he’s holding out to me.

Oh, fuck.

Catching my breath, I say, “Sorry. You surprised me.”

“Leif, what are you talking about?”

“One sec, Mom.”

He places the can in one of my bags.

“Thank you,” I say as he pulls his gaze away from mine. He offers a quick nod, then spins around and walks back to the Morgans’ place, leaving my head spinning from the bizarre-as-fuck interaction.

What the hell?

I watch as he returns to the Morgans’ before I close the trunk and head into the house. Once I’m inside, I consciously take a few breaths, physically and mentally recovering from the surprise. Mom waits patiently, and as I enter the kitchen, I say, “Sorry. I ran into that guy who’s renting the place next door. What’s his name?”

“Zane, I think.”

There it is!

“Zane, yes. I saw him at the grocery store and was thinking Zander or something.”

“What did he want?”

“He must’ve seen me drop the can, and he picked it up for me.”

“That was nice of him.”

“Yeah, I guess,” I say, which is an odd comment since it was nice, but it was done in the strangest way possible. “Sorry, it was a weird interaction. He stood there, just looking at me. Didn’t say anything. Kind of creeped me out.”

There’s that word again. I shouldn’t say that, especially about a guy who just did me a solid.

“Anyway,” I go on, “what were we talking about? Oh. Linda. Never mind. Can we keep talking about the neighbor being weird?”

I’m pleased when my playful remark earns a laugh.

“It’s only been some nasty comments here and there. But I have to say, I’m glad you didn’t come this trip.”

Tension rises within me as I think about my previous interactions with Linda.

“With everything I’ve got going on, I think my therapist was right about setting a boundary here.”

Mom’s quiet for a moment, then says, “I’m so sorry about what she said last time she was over. That was so insensitive. And heartless.”

After learning about my depression and stint in the psych unit, Linda didn’t mind sharing her thoughts:

“Must be nice staying with your parents instead of going to school.”

“I think a lot of these…what is it, Gen Z…use their mental health to cover up for how goddamn lazy they are.”

“Sometimes the parent has to learn to give the kid a good kick out of the nest.”

Which truly, for her, are relatively harmless comments.

I’m glad I don’t have to put up with her, but I feel guilty for not being there for my parents, especially when I know how vicious Linda can be to Mom.

“Speaking of Linda,” Mom says, “she apparently saw your Instagram post. She’s made some comments about your ‘secret admirer’ in that pointed way she has, like she wanted me to know she’s keeping an eye on what you’re up to.”

Fuck. My. Life.

“I didn’t post that I had a secret admirer,” I snap. “I posted that to let whoever sent it know I was onto what they were doing and that it wasn’t cool. And hoping that if one of my ex-friends knew who it was, they’d tell them to lay off.”

The whole subject brings up a series of painful events: The psych unit. My fallout with my friends on social media. The subsequent harassment I went through.

And I’d rather not think about any of it right now.

The conversation shifts to what Mom, her sister, and Dad are navigating between Grandma’s health and her home, and we catch up some more before she says, “And how is everything going with you?”

I hear the concern in her voice. I know she means well, but I don’t love being the reason she’s worried. I’m intensely aware that she would prefer to get ahead of it this time, rather than getting another call at three in the morning where I explain to her why I’m at the police station.

“It’s fine, Mom. Really.”

“So you feel like the antidepressants are working?”

A knot twists in my chest. I hate talking about this.

It reminds me of my pain. It reminds me of how bad things got. And it makes me feel like there’s something wrong with me. I know Mom doesn’t feel that way, but I can’t help it.

“Yeah, they’re fine,” I force out when she says, “Oh, she’s calling.”

Great timing, since I didn’t want to go down this route with Mom.

“I’m glad you’re still feeling better,” she adds. “Make sure you call me if you need anything. Now go make that stroganoff, and I’ll pretend I can smell it from here.”

I laugh. “When you get back, I’ll make a special meal…you can name the dish. It’ll be your treat for being far too good a daughter.”

“I like the sound of that.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow. Love you, and tell Dad I love him too.”

“I will. Love you too.”

After I hang up, I finish putting away groceries before getting started on dinner. Then I get some chores done around the house before scrolling through social media on my iPad while watching TV on the big screen in the living room, an activity I don’t regret losing the rest of my evening to.

It’s around ten thirty when I head up to my room, where my phone is charging. At least, I thought it was. Fuck. I head downstairs and grab Mom’s charger from her office, and when I plug it in, I realize my cheap-ass one from Amazon must’ve stopped working.

Great start to my night.

I set the busted cord on my nightstand—figure I’ll see if I can exchange it on Amazon—before checking on Kyra.

“Hey, beautiful. How you holding up?” I ask her as I open the door to her cage.

On a jog the other day, I discovered the Rennings’ cat attacking a sparrow and, fortunately, managed to intervene before it was too late. My first stop was to animal rescue, where they checked her out, but already overcrowded with patients, they asked if I could watch her until her wings healed up, a task I was more than up for.

I assess her as I pour a spoonful of seed into her feeder.

“Oh, you’re doing much better,” I tell her, pleased she’s not nearly as anxiety ridden as when I’d first taken her in. Her feathers look full and healthy, and she seems to be in good spirits, bouncing onto the feeder to finish off the last of the seeds.

“Good girl,” I say as I inspect her left wing. The feathers are coming back in, but I figure it’ll take a week or two until they’re functional again—at least that’s what the vet and articles I checked online suggested.

I close the door and latch it. Then I strip out of my thermal and jeans and head into my en suite bathroom. I wash my hands before pulling open the top drawer under the sink, tensing up at the sight of the pills in the orange bottle. Seeing them reminds me of my struggles, but I can’t deny I’ve been feeling better since I switched to this new antidepressant two months ago.

I brush my teeth before hopping into the shower. The warm water splashes against my skin, soothing my muscles, relaxing me.

I grab the loofah and massage some liquid soap into it when I hear a loud thud .

Instinctively, I pull back the curtain, peeking into the bedroom.

Sounded like something might’ve fallen. But there’s this fear in the back of my mind telling me someone broke down the door.

It’s a ridiculous thought. We’ve lived in this house most of my life, and there’s maybe been a handful of burglaries in our neighborhood. But of course, when you hear a noise like that, are you really ever worried about it just being a burglar?

It’s only my overactive imagination, I tell myself. Some evolved trait to help my ancestors survive in the wild, but which doesn’t do much more than make me anxious tonight. Although, anxiety is a welcome relief since I’d rather feel the twist in my chest from anxiety than the hollowness of depression.

I wait in silence, and when I’m about to return to enjoying my shower, another sound comes from downstairs.

Fuck.

I won’t be able to finish my shower without imagining becoming the victim of a slasher-movie-worthy attack, so I turn off the water and grab my towel, drying off quickly. Tying the towel around my waist, I search around for something I could use as a weapon.

If I were downstairs, I could get the baseball bat from the front closet in the foyer. Or grab a knife from the kitchen. Or check to see if Mom still keeps pepper spray in her office drawer. But I make do with a can of disinfectant spray. As I step out of the bathroom, holding the spray out before me—noticing the floral print design across the can—I feel like a fucking moron. I expect I’m gonna search the house only to find an overturned plant or a book that’s fallen in the dining room, but my imagination tortures me with different scenarios, tailoring a horror movie where this scene could easily fit in.

A bead of sweat runs down my forehead, but as I reach the door, I force myself to turn the knob, then pull it open and peer into the hallway.

Another sound catches my attention.

This time it’s not coming from inside. Sounds like the backyard.

I hurry to the window and force the blinds apart.

My room light refracts off the windowpane, making it difficult to see, but I notice a moving silhouette on the inside of the fence.

The hell?

Is someone back there?

But that first sound was in the house, for sure. Was someone trying to get in and gave up?

I start to spin around when I’m shoved from behind, something pushing against my back. I jump from the scare, reaching back, and my elbow hits something.

“Ow, fuck!” I hear as I realize there’s an arm around my waist.

The blood drains from my face.

My heart races.

My throat dries.

The fuck is going on?

“Hey, hey,” the man who’s got me whispers, “I’m armed.”

I feel something at my cheek and turn to see a gun.

A fucking gun!

I freeze, and I realize that at some point when my attacker grabbed me, I dropped the damn disinfectant. Not that it would have done me much good, but it was all I had.

“Keep quiet,” he whispers in a low, deep voice. “Nod so I know you heard me.”

I obey, noticing how much my body’s trembling.

“Put your hands up by your head.”

Again, I follow his instructions, hoping to spare myself a bullet to the head.

“I’m not gonna hurt you, but you need to do what I say, got it?”

I’m sure that’s what any psychopath would tell his victim, but I nod anyway.

He keeps his arm tight around me as he guides me back toward my closet.

Really wish I’d signed up for a self-defense class at some point in my not terribly long life, but the best I could do now is maybe try some moves I’ve seen on TV and in movies and wind up getting myself killed.

As he opens my closet, I catch a glimpse of him in the full-length mirror.

About half a foot shorter than me.

Pale face.

Dirty-blond hair.

Steel-blue eyes.

That creep from next door?

What. The. Fuck?

I’ve barely had the thought before he drags me into the closet, leaving the door ajar, so some of the room light spills in.

It’s just the two of us, breathing intensely.

I’m still shaking. Or is he shaking? Are we both shaking?

He tugs me close to his body.

I don’t feel the gun, but I imagine he’s got it aimed at my head, maybe planning to finish me off now.

My mind runs through scenarios of what he’s gonna do to me.

Maybe kill me.

Maybe do some other terrible things to me before killing me.

That’s what he has to do now that I’ve seen him, right?

Why the fuck did he pull me into a closet? No one’s here. He could just as easily do whatever he wants to me in the bedroom.

“Stay in here.” His hot breath hits my ear, and I gulp and nod. “I’m gonna go check and see if they’re still here.”

I barely process the words before he rushes out, quietly closing the door behind him.

Well, that wasn’t what I was expecting…

I figured he would beat the shit out of me, sexually assault me…do something vile that I hadn’t had time to consider…

But he left me in here…for reasons I can’t imagine.

My heartbeat is in a frenzy, my nerves on edge, all my survival impulses telling me: get out of this alive .

It takes a few moments, but his words come back to me: “I’m gonna go check and see if they’re still here.”

The shadow in the backyard. Was someone else here? Did Zane come by to make sure I was okay?

No, this isn’t how someone reacts to their neighbor having a burglar in their house.

Not even a little.

I press my ear against the door, listening out for him. A few moments pass before I hear a familiar creak down the hall. I recognize that creak; it’s from inside my parents’ bedroom.

Just stay in here like he told you.

But my phone is still charging on my nightstand, and maybe if I can get to it, I can call the police. This could be my only chance to make a break for it.

Still shaking, I turn the doorknob slowly, hoping I won’t make too much noise. I’m equally cautious about opening the door.

My phone’s still on my nightstand, but he’s left the bedroom door open, so if I go for it and he comes back down the hall, he’ll see me. And if he sees me, knowing I disobeyed him, he might fucking kill me.

He might kill you anyway.

But if that’s what he wanted, why leave me in this closet alone? And who was that in the backyard?

I don’t have time to figure it out. I need to get the phone and get help.

Kyra chirps as I take a few steps out of the closet. I’m careful not to disturb the floorboards as I start around the bed, on the side opposite my phone, then crawl over the mattress to keep out of view from the doorway.

My phone’s almost within reach. If I could only snatch it, I might get out of this.

Go, go, go!

I grab it off the nightstand, and as I turn to the doorway, I see Zane at the other end of the hall, that intense gaze on me.

I’m. A. Dead. Man.

He starts for me, his jaw tensing, and I sprint into action, racing for the door. My towel drops, and I let it fall as I manage to get to the door just in time to slam it shut and turn the lock.

Thank fuck.

As I start to dial, my hands are shaking so much, I figure I might drop the phone.

9-1-

“Hey! You! Upstairs!” a booming voice echoes through the house. “Sir, I need you to put your hands where I can see them!”

The voice has an authoritative ring to it. A cop? Is this some kind of miracle? Oh fuck, please be a miracle.

“Hey, hey, it’s all good. Calm down.” That must be Zane.

“Hands where we can see them, and drop to the floor,” the officer commands, her voice booming as she directs Zane where to place his hands and asks him about weapons.

I’m about to call out that I’m up here and he’s got a gun when Zane says, “There’s someone else up here in a bedroom.”

“Anyone else, come out where we can see you!”

You’re safe , I tell myself. I grab my towel off the floor and wrap it around my waist, heading out the door.

Warn them about the fucking gun! is my first thought, but I’ve seen the goddamn news. What if they start shooting indiscriminately and I get caught in the line of fire?

But I notice Zane’s on the floor, his hands spread out, though I don’t see his gun on him. What did he do with it?

Keeping my hands up—since I don’t want to have survived him only to get shot by a cop—I head into the hall.

Zane’s a few feet from me, the two officers downstairs, both with their guns out.

“He fucking lives here,” Zane says.

“Kid, you have ID?” one of the officers asks, and I nod.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Get down like your friend there, and tell us where it is.”

Friend?

I’m in shock as I get into the same position as my attacker.

The first officer sends up the guy with her to retrieve my driver’s license from my bedroom, and once they’ve checked it, they let me stand up.

“Someone reported a break-in,” she says, “and the front door was open when we got here.”

“That was me,” Zane says. “I’m the one who called you. You can check my phone in my back pocket.”

He called the cops? Another weird-ass part of this that’s not making any sense.

But one of the cops checks his ID and phone, turning to the other. “He’s telling the truth. Zane Grayson. This is you?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“This your friend, Leif?” the female officer asks.

“Yes,” Zane says.

“I didn’t ask you. Kid, is Zane your friend?”

Zane closes his eyes, like he knows he’s gonna be in deep shit for what he’s just done.

“Is this your friend?” she asks again.

“No.”

He hits his forehead on the floor.

But my mind’s still spinning.

Yes, he had a gun and he grabbed me, but he didn’t hurt me.

And he told me he was going to look for someone.

And now I find out he called the cops?

He looks at me, that determined expression gone. His eyes are wide, desperate, pleading.

He lied about being my friend. For some reason, he doesn’t want me to tell them the truth. Maybe because it’ll get him in trouble. Now that my senses are coming back to me, it’s clear this wasn’t what I thought initially, but it’s still confusing as fuck. If someone else was here and he was trying to help, what if turning him in might get him in trouble?

Then again, what if I’m not in the right frame of mind from the trauma of everything that just happened?

This is a shit idea. I know it to my core.

Whatever the reason, I say, “Sorry, he’s not a friend, but someone I know.”

The cop’s brow creases. “You kidding me right now?”

“Sorry. I was nervous. This was a shock to me. I’ve never been around cops with guns out before.”

I notice Zane’s only a foot away from the hall console. A gun could fit under there.

“Okay, kids,” she says before introducing herself as Kendrick and her partner as Diaz. “I’d appreciate if one of you could explain to me what’s going on.”

Zane rises to his feet. “We were hanging out, and someone came in from the back door. I called the cops because Leif was taking a shower—”

“You were taking a shower while the two of you were hanging?” she asks, glancing between us. “You know it’s fine to tell me the truth. We won’t judge. I have a wonderful wife of thirteen years. It’s not a big deal.”

“We were hanging out,” he insists. “I was watching a movie in his room while he showered. I heard a sound in the house and called. And it was taking forever for you guys to come, so I went to see if there was someone here. That’s why I was in the hall.”

Zane doesn’t struggle to come up with a plausible lie, that’s for sure. But why does he need to lie? If he saw a burglar from his place, couldn’t he have told the cops that?

No, there’s definitely more to this. And only my weird-ass neighbor knows what that is.

“Is that what happened?” Kendrick asks me, casually, not like she’s waiting for me to shout, “No, this guy had a fucking gun to my head, and I thought he might kill me.”

But he doesn’t seem nearly as intimidating now.

“Yeah, that’s right,” I say. “When Zane was looking around, I saw someone head out through the back door.”

The officers let me change into sweats and a tee, and I meet them downstairs with Zane. Kendrick inspects the front door, getting down on her knees with a flashlight as she takes a look at the lock. “Did you leave it unlocked?”

“I don’t think so, but I really can’t remember.”

Zane and I exchange an awkward look, and I try to read his expression, as though all the answers I need for what’s going on will be encoded somewhere on his face.

“I don’t see any signs of forced entry,” Kendrick says, pushing to her feet. When we head into the kitchen, the back door’s open too. Kendrick performs a similar inspection, aiming her flashlight at the lock before saying, “There are some markings here. Could’ve been picked by whoever broke in.”

“Should we change the lock?” I ask.

“Maybe get one with a different locking mechanism, since whoever came in has clearly figured out how to crack this one, but it seems like you scared them off. I wouldn’t be too worried about it.”

After the scare I’ve had, I think I’ll go for changing the lock.

Kendrick and Diaz take some more notes.

“We’ll check around the neighborhood for anyone suspicious,” Kendrick says as she leads Diaz to the front door, “but keep your alarm on, and you should be fine.”

Are they about to leave me with Zane?

As if sensing my fear, he pipes up. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Leif.”

The goose bumps return.

Tomorrow? Am I really going to see him then?

I mean, he does owe me an explanation.

Or maybe he wants his gun back.

For now, he leaves with the cops, and I hurry around, locking the doors and turning on the security system before taking a deep breath.

You’re alive. You’re fucking alive.

But what the hell just happened?