Because I'm Watching Page 19

She yanked open the door. “How did you know to come?”

  He was barefoot. “You screamed.” He narrowed his eyes. “Louder than normal.”

  “Right. Thank you for coming.” She pointed a shaking finger toward the kitchen. “They’re in there.”

  “What’s in there?”

  “Maggots. Please take them away. I can’t stand the thought of them crawling all over my kitchen.”

  Jacob went over to the spill. “Ew. How long have you had that sandwich?”

  “I bought it today!”

  “You must have had it longer than that. This is from Sienna’s, right? The place you buy your sandwiches?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was squeaking.

  “This food is rotten.”

  He wasn’t going to believe her. No matter what she said, no matter if she dug out her receipt and showed him, he wouldn’t believe her. “Get. Rid. Of it.”

  He got a handful of paper towels to protect his hands, scooped up the contents—the bread, the meat, the cookie, the salad—and placed it back in the box.

  Maddie shuddered and shuddered, and wiped at tears that leaked from her eyes.

  “Where’s your garbage can?” Jacob asked.

  “Out back. But I called the police. Shouldn’t you save that as evidence?”

  The wail of a siren. Another knock at the door.

  Jacob paused, the box held in his hands. “Ask the cop.”

  She looked through the peephole at Officer Moen of the bright red hair and the raging ambitions. Opening the door, she pointed at Jacob. “He came. He helped me. Do you want us to save the maggots as evidence?”

  Moen lost color, taking his complexion from pale to pasty white. “Maggots? Ew. No one said maggots. No, I don’t want them!”

  “I’ve seen worse. Hell, I’ve eaten worse.” Jacob headed out the back door.

  “Miss Hewitson, do you want me to come in? Protect you?” Moen asked.

  “From who?”

  “From, um, him. He’s”—Moen lowered his voice—“a little crazy.”

  She remembered all too well what had happened the last time Moen was in her house. “No. No, thank you. I’m fine.”

  “Miss Hewitson, I don’t know what the police department can do about these incidents, but I will continue to park close and hopefully that will make you feel safer.”

  Please, no. “That’s not necessary. I know you have other duties.”

  “It’s okay. I have to go somewhere on my lunch hour. Anytime you feel threatened, come out and wave at me and I’ll be here ASAP.”

  “Sure. Thank you.” She shut the door in his face. She peeked out the window and watched until Officer Moen pulled away. But he wouldn’t go far, she knew. Not far enough.

  Jacob came back, wiping at his hands. “Anything else?”

  She pointed again. “That chair was not where I put it. There is a sketch I didn’t draw.”

  “Maggots, chair, and sketch. Check.”

  She felt hostile. Scared. “You can doubt me all you want about the chair and the sketch, but those were maggots! In the large scheme of things, maybe they aren’t so bad. They can’t kill me.” She stopped, swallowed, whispered, “Only when I’m dead of a slashed throat will they visit again.”

  With heavy mockery, Jacob asked, “Aren’t you dramatic?”

  How dare he? The guy—this man Moen labeled as “a little crazy”—was ridiculing her. “You were the last man I expected would make fun of me.” Her voice broke. Then she fell apart, sobbing into her hands until she had to rush for the tissues on her desk. Handfuls of tissues, and never enough. She didn’t see Jacob pacing toward her—how could she, with her eyes shut tightly against the tears?—but when he tried to wrap her in his arms, she shoved at him. “No!”

  He paid no attention, pulling her gently against his chest and murmuring, “I’m sorry. I’m a jerk. Maggots are gross.”

  “They … they … they … eat dead people!” She tried not to think of her friends, sliced open by a maniac, of Easton, throat cut, bleeding, dying … and all of them locked in an eternal embrace with squirming death.

  But how could she not think of them? Every day, she worked at her desk and saw that blood spatter. Every day, something stalked her, and for all her sorrow, she did not want to join her friends in their graves. She mourned Easton, but she wanted to live her life, enjoy the sunshine, and never fear the night. She sobbed harder, slurred her words, rained tears on Jacob’s wrinkled T-shirt. “I want … I want to be normal. I can … can … can be normal!”

  “Shhh.”

  “Live … live like everyone else.”

  “You can do it.”

  She yelled into his chest. “Yes! I can! Just … let me. Someone … let me!” Her own sobbing choked her. She couldn’t breathe. Her knees collapsed.

  He caught her, picked her up, carried her into the bedroom illuminated only by the light from the living room. He stood her on her feet and threw back the covers. “You need to sleep.”

  That piece of inanity stopped the tears, restored her breath. “You … idiot. I can’t sleep! He’s been … in my house. I don’t know what … what else he has done to … me!”

  Jacob wavered under the weight of his decision. “Fine. I’ll stay with you.” He collapsed onto the sheets, taking her with him.

  “I don’t want you,” she said petulantly.

  “I don’t want to be here.”

  She couldn’t stand to be alone. “Promise you won’t leave.”

  “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

  “I won’t go to sleep.”

  “Neither will I.”

  They lay together, both staring at the ceiling in miserable silence, waiting for the morning.

  They slept together. No sex. I figured he had no balls.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Jacob opened his eyes to a sunny room with yellow walls. An antique dresser with a pale blue silk dressing stool. A silver hairbrush. A collection of glass perfume bottles.

  Where the hell was he?

  He looked down at the person cuddled into his body.

  Shit. Maddie. He was at Maddie’s. He had slept. All night. At Maddie’s.

  Look at them now. She’d thrown her leg over his hip. He’d shoved his leg between hers. His arm was asleep because her head rested against his shoulder. And he held her boob in his hand. He hadn’t touched a boob for a couple of years. Since he’d been in Korea. Amazing how right away he knew what it was.

  She was snoring. So much for not sleeping.

  God almighty, though. He’d been asleep, too. He’d slept. Slowly he turned his head to face the nightstand. The clock said ten thirty. The light said it was morning. He’d been here with Maddie for … hours. Sleeping. Sleeping. No nightmares. No phantoms. Just sleeping like a couple of exhausted …

  No. Don’t use the word “lovers.”

  He needed to get away before she woke up. He needed to get home before anyone saw him. Before Mrs. Butenschoen scolded him for lowering the moral tone of her beloved neighborhood. Because no matter what he said, no matter how much he denied having sex, Mrs. Butenschoen would think the worst. Everyone would think the worst.

  Moving with great care, he slid his hand away from Maddie’s very agreeable boob. Good shape, nice size. He eased his leg from between her legs. Since his morning erection had chosen this moment to make a stand, that was more of a struggle. Not to mention she moaned and flung her arm around his waist like she wanted him to stay put.

  Oh, no. He was too smart for that. That way lay … so much trouble.

  Now to ease his shoulder out from under her head.

  He calculated the velocity he should move, the replacement of him with her pillow, how he would maneuver toward the edge of the bed and slide out of the room.…

  If his arm hadn’t been asleep, he would have made it. But at the most inopportune moment, his lifeless hand flopped on her chest—yes, on her boob again—and she came awake like a surprised cat, stiff as a board and cl
aws out.

  She recognized him and froze.

  He saw the moment she realized what they had done.

  She said, “Oh, my God. Oh, my God. We slept together!”

  He clapped his hand over her mouth. “We did not. Don’t say it like that.”

  She pushed his hand away. “Right. You’re right. We didn’t sleep together. We rested on the same bed.” She sat up and shoved her hair out of her wide eyes. She looked warm, soft, startled, wary. “But I did … were you awake the whole time?”

  He was going to lie. Sure. I was awake.

  But she looked closely and said, “You look better. Less maniacal.” She realized the truth and without a thought to diplomacy, she accused, “You slept, too.”

  He nodded grudgingly.

  She grabbed the collar of his T-shirt. “We’ll never tell anyone. Right? You promise. Right?”

  “God, no. Never.”

  “No, really. You and me. In bed. The neighbors. Mrs. Butenschoen.” She shuddered. She edged off the mattress.

  He began to feel insulted.

  Then, so close they both jumped, a police siren started wailing. No, more than one, and some in the distance, too.

  Next door at Mrs. Nyback’s, Spike started yapping.

  Maddie looked at Jacob, her eyes so wide and horrified that he was undeniably insulted. Irritated, he said, “No one is coming to arrest us for sleeping in your bed.”

  She took a quavering breath. “Right. You’re right.”

  “No one cares.”

  “If you believe that, I’ve got a bridge to sell you.”

  Now, she was right. Not that Jacob would admit it. He stood up and walked into the living room.

  “No!” Before he could open the blind, she scampered after him and caught the back of his shirt. “Let me.” She peeked out. “Two police cruisers are out there with Moen, Sheriff Kwinault, some other officers. Another patrol car just came around the corner. They’re all stopped at the neighbor’s across the street.”

  “Dayton Floren?”

  “I don’t know. The guy in the suit, the one who’s never home. He’s standing on the sidewalk. Guns are pointed at him. He’s talking fast. Everyone’s looking at him.” She faced Jacob. “You have to get out. This is the perfect time. Everyone’s distracted. Get out.”

  She was right. “I’ll leave the back way, go west down the alley, and come out down at the end of the street by the Pacific.” It was broad daylight. He was going out in broad daylight.

  She implored, “Don’t let anybody see you. If anything happened to you, I would never forgive myself.”

  Now he understood. She was afraid her monster would hunt him down. He supposed that was marginally less insulting than her being embarrassed to be seen with him. But really. “I can take care of myself.”

  “You’re skin and bones. Out of shape. A teenage girl could break you.” She pushed him toward the back. “Now go. Go!”

  He went out the back door. He tried to slide through her gate. She’d failed to mention she had padlocked it shut. So rather than making an inconspicuous exit, he had to jump the five-foot fence onto the hood of someone’s black SUV.

  Teach them to park there.

  He glanced up and down the alley.

  No one was in sight.

  He ran to the end of the alley, turned onto the lonely path that wound its way along the cliffs overlooking the ocean, and when he reached the pavement that marked Dogwood Blossom Street, he headed for his home and the ruckus that surrounded Dayton Floren. By the time Jacob managed to reach the police action, he was winded. Skin and bones. Out of shape. Damn you, Madeline Hewitson, for being right.

  He stopped running and walked up to the crowd.

  Mrs. Nyback’s damned dog was still yapping. Neighbors from two blocks around were assembled on his lawn. On his lawn. Evidently after so many crises they figured his lawn was the common assembly place. And his construction crew—the electricians, the plumbers, the framers—they were here, too, dawdling, fascinated by the unfolding drama.

  Jacob glanced around, trying to judge how well he had eased into the scene.

  He found Dr. Frownfelter watching him nonjudgmentally, but watching him nevertheless. Frownfelter knew Jacob had come from somewhere else. Still, as far as Jacob could tell, the doctor kept his own counsel, and he would not betray Jacob.

  Maddie stood in the middle of the crowd, studiously ignoring him and clasping two books to her chest. Two hardbound books.

  Really? On her way out the door, she’d stopped to grab books?

  Mrs. Butenschoen arrived, all brisk sympathy and superficial friendliness. “Did they get him?”

  The young father from down the street turned on her. “Him who?”

  “That young man next door. My surveillance camera caught a man in Mr. Denisov’s house looking at the construction plans. It was Dayton Floren. He crumpled them up, put them on the table, ran down the steps—and the flames leaped into the air.”

  Mr. Franklin turned to his wife. “Dayton Floren? We just sold our house to Dayton Floren!”

  “What?” Mrs. Butenschoen arched up like a hooded cobra. “Why would you do that? Why would you leave our beloved historical neighborhood?”

  “Every night the cops are here. Every day there’s a new crisis. Some of the neighbors are danger—” Mrs. Franklin cut off her words, eyed first Maddie and then Jacob, then added primly, “The neighborhood no longer feels like a safe place to raise our children.”

  “Of course not. But obviously Dayton Floren is the one who has been making all the trouble.” Mrs. Butenschoen moved closer to Maddie. “All the trouble.”

  Maddie edged away, still clutching the books to her chest.

  “Not all of it,” Mr. Franklin retorted.

  “No.” Jacob looked at his broken house and the construction crew taking their break on his lawn. “Not all of it.”

  “Nevertheless, I think we all owe Maddie an apology for our suspicions of her. I, for one, am sorry.” Mrs. Butenschoen patted her arm.

  Maddie flinched and said, “Thank you, but it’s okay. The night of the fire, I got to meet the Williamsons and they kindly exonerated me.”

  Mrs. Butenschoen glanced around. “Too bad our neighbor Chantal isn’t here to see this occurrence. She still seemed doubtful of our Maddie’s innocence even after the Williamsons’ testimony.”

  “Speak of the devil,” Jacob said.

  The low, fast, black Mercedes S-Class coupe drove up, parked at the curb in front of Chantal’s house, and Chantal got out of the driver’s seat dressed in another one of her short skirts, heels, and a tight black leather jacket. The ugliest man in the world was nowhere in sight.

  “In her case, the wages of sin is a really great car,” Dr. Frownfelter said.

  Jacob did not laugh. But he must have grinned, because both men found themselves pinned under the stern gaze of Mrs. Butenschoen.

  As if she had heard them, Chantal tossed her blond hair and went inside.

  “Is she an actress?” Maddie asked.

  “I heard she was a model,” Dr. Frownfelter said.

  “That must be why I thought I recognized her,” Maddie said.

  Moore and Web joined Jacob and Dr. Frownfelter. Moore said, “I have supervised the building of many projects that make me proud, but nothing has ever come as close to perfect architecture as that body.”

  Web nodded solemnly.

  Chantal came back out and, shoulders back, stride long, walked down her sidewalk and across the street. She stopped on the sidewalk—Jacob figured she didn’t dare step into the grass or her stiletto heels would sink—and said, “Hi, neighbors. What’s up this time?”

  Jacob was a PTSD-plagued veteran so he didn’t have to answer. Which was a good thing, since looking at those legs commandeered all his concentration.

  Anyway, with Mrs. Butenschoen around, no one else had to say a word. “Mr. Floren has wicked plans for Dogwood Blossom Street, and with this fire in Mr. Denisov’s h
ome, he went too far.”

  “Wait. Wait.” Chantal waved a long-fingered hand that sported one glittering diamond ring, and Jacob got a whoosh of expensive perfume. “Are you saying that guy set Mr. Denisov’s house on fire? On purpose?”

  “That is what Sheriff Kwinault is arresting him for.” Turning to the Franklins, Mrs. Butenschoen asked, “Aren’t you ashamed for selling to him?”

  Mr. Franklin clearly did not appreciate being scolded. “Not at all. Dayton made the sale painless and he paid us a good price!”

  “I wonder if the contract on the house will hold.” Mrs. Franklin confided, “We made a down payment on another, larger home.”

  “So that guy is buying the houses on this street?” Chantal looked over at Dayton Floren, who was now glaring at Mrs. Butenschoen. “I wonder how much he’d give me for mine.”

  Mrs. Butenschoen shook her finger at Chantal. “Young lady, don’t you sell to him!” She turned to Maddie. “Not you, either!”

  Maddie’s chin jutted out. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Yeah, well, I need a place with a better garage,” Chantal said.

  “For that car?” Web muttered. “You don’t need a garage, you need a vault.”

  Chantal watched Dayton Floren through absurdly long lashes, and Jacob thought he detected a mercenary gleam. “Too bad about him getting caught,” she said. “How did he get nailed?”

  Mrs. Butenschoen leaped to take credit. “I caught him on my security camera and reported him.”

  Chantal’s gaze flicked between Dayton Floren and Mrs. Butenschoen. In a jaded tone she said, “Wow. Just like a real detective.”

  “Yes. He was also the one placing dog poop in my front yard. I have tried to form a neighborhood watch, but people are so careless about their duties! They say they’re busy or they don’t care. So I take up the slack.” Mrs. Butenschoen patted Jacob’s arm. “Such good luck for our local hero! House fires rapidly get out of control, and with the paints, varnishes, and lumber available for fuel, his home would have been totally destroyed in no time.”

  Jacob’s mother, in the form of his conscience, sat on his right shoulder, nagging him about his manners. “Thank you.”

  Mrs. Butenschoen patted Jacob’s arm again. “No need for thanks. I did the neighborly thing.”