The Guy Next Door

Chapter 2

2

ZANE

A s I approach the door, I wonder what the hell I’m doing.

This is a mistake.

He could call the cops; he should call the cops. Hell, he should have told the cops I’d broken into his house and pulled him into a closet with a gun like a fucking monster.

Standing on his front porch, glancing around, I remind myself what a shit idea this is, but I need to talk to him.

And I need my gun back.

After I ring the doorbell, a few moments pass before I notice Leif through the sidelight windows.

This house has too many damn windows. Anyone can see right through. Watch him, the way I’ve watched him for the past couple of weeks. However, to the credit of this voyeur’s paradise, it works both ways, and he spots me through the window, the eyes on his sexy face widening before he hides behind the door.

I wait to hear his phone trilling as he calls the police. Or for him to tell me to leave him the fuck alone, but as I’m trying to imagine what I could possibly say to navigate this, I hear, “Can I help you?”

There’s a tremble in his voice, and I’m pleased to detect his innate, primal fear.

He should be afraid. That’s what’s going to keep him safe, alive.

I try to shake those kinds of thoughts away—they’re like shit Dad would have said.

“I think you know why I’m here.” Did that sound creepy? Fuck.

I wait for a response, but nothing for a few moments before he says, “You wanna tell me why you were over the other night?”

“I do, but not out here. Not like this.”

Silence.

“How do I know you won’t hurt me?”

“Did I hurt you when I had the chance?” That fucking sounds creepy too. Shit, I’m bad at this.

Nothing from the other side. Okay, maybe this isn’t happening, and I’m probably scaring the shit out of the poor guy, so I start toward the steps when I hear a click behind me. I turn to find him standing inside the cracked-open doorway, pepper spray in hand. In sweats, and he’s wearing one of his beanies…why does he have to wear beanies? I love a man in a beanie. And his tank top is tight around his chest, his lean, muscly arms on full display.

I maintain eye contact to keep from ogling him, but fuck, he’s hot.

Stop being a creeper!

Too late, I guess.

“What? You’re not gonna Lysol me to death, are you?” I say to cut through our awkward stare-off.

But he just keeps staring at me.

Doesn’t get my humor. Fair enough. Maybe not all that funny, given what happened the last time I saw him.

“I mean, I’m the one who should be mad,” I add. “You really nailed my nose.”

He assesses my face before looking me over. Maybe trying to figure out if I have any other weapons on me. But he won’t see the knife in my ankle sheath. I’m not a fucking amateur.

“I guess.” He starts to turn back to the house, but then quickly pulls his attention back to me. “Just so you know, you try anything—before opening the door, I sent an email to a friend to let them know the last person I was with, Zane Grayson. And that officer who was here last night will—”

“I get it. Everyone will know I’m your psycho stalker killer. Can I come in or what?” I ask it like I’m some kind of vampire, waiting for his permission, and that’s how he’s eyeing me.

He’s obviously struggling with it, his gaze shifting around before he says, “Fuck it. Come on. Close the door behind you.”

He steps aside, facing me as I close the door.

“I assume you know where the kitchen is now,” he says.

“Yup,” I admit as I head in. “You want me to sit down? Or will this be like…give me my gun and then ask me to get the hell out of here?”

He follows me into the kitchen, keeping his pepper spray ready for me.

“I think it’s ambitious for you to assume I’m gonna give you your gun,” he says.

As I enter the kitchen, I have a little more time to appreciate the design. White tile floors. Dark-gray cabinets. Marble backsplash, counters, and island—all white with the occasional light-gray vein. A glass kitchen table with some clear ghost chairs around it. As appealing as the style is, my eyes are particularly drawn to a plate of jumbo chocolate-chip cookies on the kitchen island, which stir an intense growl in my stomach. Clearly some steel oats weren’t cutting it for breakfast. Not for this greedy belly.

“Nice kitchen,” I say.

“Is that sarcasm?”

“No, but don’t worry. It’s not only you. Apparently, everything I say sounds sarcastic, so my actual sarcasm gets lost in the mix.”

“I promise, not being able to detect your sarcasm isn’t what I’m worried about.”

“Ha. Ha. Ha,” I drag out. “He doesn’t just tremble in fear; he tells jokes too.” That one definitely doesn’t hit. “Sorry, I’m trying to make this less awkward.”

“I don’t think there’s a way you’ll be able to do that.” His deadly serious expression assures me of it.

“Um…I figure I can’t really make this any worse, so would you mind if I had one of these cookies?” I can’t help myself. They look so damn good; they’re distracting me from the reason I’m here.

“Sure. You want it heated up?”

“Is that sarcasm? Because I wouldn’t mind, if you’re seriously offering.”

His eyes narrow, and he smirks. “I mean, I’ll heat it up for you. But sit at the table. You’re making me nervous standing there.”

I make myself comfy in one of the ghost chairs. “These are more comfortable than they look,” I observe, which earns another look from Leif as he fetches a pair of tongs from a glass of kitchenware and a small plate from the cabinet.

“Guess this isn’t the conversation you figured we’d be having?” I ask.

“That’s an understatement.” He grabs one of the cookies with the tongs and plates it before placing it in the microwave.

“So…are you gonna tell me what happened last night?” he asks.

“What do you mean?”

“The part where you broke into my parents’ house and pulled me into a closet with a gun—”

“See? Didn’t catch the sarcasm. But at least you’re pretty.”

Too fucking pretty. I need to stop looking at him. He’s freaked out enough as it is.

“Now would be a good time to start explaining shit,” he says as the microwave buzzes to life.

“Where do I even start?”

“I’ve seen you the past couple of weeks around here. You’re living at the Morgans’ place? Renting?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ve looked at me weirdly more than a few times. Are you a stalker?”

“Not in the sense you might think.”

His brow creases. “You can understand why that’s a concerning answer, right?”

“I’m not gonna pretend I haven’t been watching you. I have. Since a little before you first noticed me.”

“Why did you rent the Morgans’ house?”

“To watch you.” I don’t have any reason to lie to him. Not about this. I stare him down, surely unable to disguise my determination, my obsession.

He glances around uneasily. The microwave pings, startling him.

“I think you’re asking the wrong questions,” I tell him as he retrieves the cookie.

“And I figured you wouldn’t beat around the bush like this.”

He’s right. I’m stalling. But the truth will freak him out more than thinking I’m some fucked-up stalker. Still, I gotta get it out. “You gonna believe me if I say I was trying to protect you?”

He approaches with my cookie, moving cautiously, watching me as though waiting for any sudden movements. Then he places the plate on the table and steps away, his pepper spray’s security lifted, his finger ready to hit the trigger.

I pick at the cookie, testing the heat as I lick the chocolate off my thumb. Damn, that’s good. I wonder if it’s delicious or if I think that because I haven’t had enough to eat today.

“You make these?”

“Yeah,” he says, his expression twisting up.

Of course he did. The guy’s always in the kitchen, making one thing or another.

“You said protect me. Someone else was here last night, weren’t they?”

“Yeah.”

“I knew it.”

I brave a bigger bite of my cookie, thinking it might be too hot, but it’s just right—a perfect chunky/gooey combination.

“Fuck,” I mutter. “Damn, you can bake.”

“Thank you…?” he says, but the way he inflects, it sounds more like a question. “So who was it?” he presses.

“Okay,” I say around a fresh mouthful of cookie, “if I knew who it was, obviously I would have gone to the police, and we could have ended it right there.”

“How could you possibly have known someone was going to break into my house if you don’t know who it is?”

Put this kid out of his damn misery. “You familiar with the Jason Kilbourne disappearance? Guy who went to Wyachet Community College. Went missing from town last year.”

Leif nods. “I didn’t remember his name, but I remember seeing the story.”

“And last March, another WCC student went missing.”

“Yeah…”

“You don’t happen to have any water, do you?”

He glares at me.

“Fair enough. A little over a month ago, you remember posting a note on Instagram? About someone you thought was bullying you by pretending to be a secret admirer?”

His face flushes red. “I remember.”

“I have a hard time figuring why you’d imagine that was a joke. You’re a hot guy. I would think you’d be used to the attention.”

His gaze shifts around uneasily. “I’ve had a rough year, and since I came back home, some of the people I knew haven’t been all that welcoming because of…reasons.”

“You don’t have to be cryptic with me. I know about your meltdown in Atlanta and the stint in the psych unit.”

For the first time, he avoids my gaze, turning away from me. “We’re not talking about that.”

I immediately regret bringing it up. “Sorry. Fuck. No. I don’t want you to think I’m being insensitive. Shit. I guess I was anyway, but trust me, whatever you’ve been through, I’ve had my share of crap too. No judgment. I’m so used to that shit that clearly it seems like a nonissue. I meant, I researched you after I saw the post.”

Just keep on digging that hole, Z.

I eat another chunk of cookie, sticking as much in my mouth as I can manage. Maybe that’ll keep me from saying any other dumb shit.

He heads to the fridge and fetches a bottle of water. As he approaches me with it, he doesn’t struggle like he did with the cookie. Just passes it to me. I take the bottle and down a quarter of it, washing down the cookie, which feels like it’s moving in clumps down my throat.

My stomach forgives me for my neglect, and I breathe a sigh of relief, happy this whole bit has prevented me from saying anything else to hurt Leif.

“So why would you care about some dumb post I made?”

“There are these subreddits where you can speculate about different crimes. A bunch of podcasters and social media sleuths gravitate to it. While I was trying to figure out what happened to the second guy who disappeared, I ran across a comment from a user who claimed he knew him and that he’d received a letter from an admirer about a month before he went missing. I tried to reach out to the Reddit user to see what he was talking about, but he didn’t respond to my DM. Then I mentioned it to the cops, but they didn’t give a fuck about some random Reddit user who could have been bullshitting. I followed the subreddit, and sometime later, I got pinged, and suddenly I see a reply to that previous comment from one of these Reddit sleuths—a link to your Insta post. Never underestimate the power of geeks with too much time on their hands.” As I reveal this, his shoulders relax, along with the arm holding the pepper spray, so that now he seems a little less ready to temporarily blind me.

“So you found my Insta. And then…”

“I searched through your other posts, saw you’d tagged your mom in a picture together. She had some posts up for her financial consultant business. There was only a PO Box on the website, but her LLC paperwork on the Georgia Corporations Division site listed this address for her contact information…which…I assume you get where this is going.”

Damn, I’m really begging him to just call the cops on me again, aren’t I?

I shift uneasily in the chair. “You know, it sounds much worse when I say it out loud like that.”

Leif stares at me for a few moments. I’m waiting for him to flip out over that, but it doesn’t seem to affect him—maybe because he’s already pieced together that I must’ve done something like that to be here in the first place.

Finally, he says, “And then you decided to rent a house near me, so…what? You can watch and wait for this serial kidnapper?”

“So that I can get this fucker myself,” I say through gritted teeth. “Hence the gun.”

“And you think that’s who was in my house?”

“Someone was creeping around the back. Looked like a guy. Average height, slender build. I have night-vision cameras to keep an eye on your yard, and—”

“You what?”

Shit.

“I’ve set up some stuff around your yard to keep an eye on things. I’m not doing it to violate your privacy.”

“But you are violating it. You know that, right?”

He’s not wrong.

“Yes,” I confess.

He takes a breath. That’s fair. He has a lot to consider. This is all new information, and if I were in his shoes and didn’t know anything about this shit, I’d be wigging out too.

“Assuming it was a guy you saw last night and he is this serial abductor, why would he be after me?” he asks, and it’s not even a question directed at me. Be a great time to keep my damn mouth shut, but I can’t help myself.

“Let’s just say you’re his type.”

“What does that mean?”

“You have a certain similarity with the two other guys who went missing. Around the same age—eighteen to early twenties. College kid. Dark hair, pale skin. Little muscular. Attractive. Very attractive.”

That makes him wince. And if I haven’t given myself away already, I sure as fuck did just then.