The Good Neighbor (20 page)

CHAPTER FORTY

I park at the curb on Sitka Lane, right in front of the bare land where the two demolished houses once stood. I imagine the home Johnny and I shared, the light slanting in through the windows, the hydrangeas in bloom. I imagine my wedding ring, lost in the fire. I picture Monique standing on the back deck, reaching out for the bag of charcoal, her white-blond hair shining in the twilight.

“Sarah?”

I turn to see Pedra hurrying down her driveway in jeans and a blue shirt, not her usual splashes of color. She’s muted, subdued. She gives me a wordless hug, then steps back, and we look at each other. Her eyes are red and puffy from crying. She grips my arm in desperation. “Oh, Sarah.”

“I got your message,” I say. “Sorry it took me a while to get here.”

“Did Jessie call you?”

“No. What’s going on?”

Tears spill from her eyes. She wipes them away. “Come. You must see.” Pedra ushers me across the street, into her house, and shows me Jessie’s room, unnaturally neat, her books arranged by height on the shelves. But she left gaps, as if she couldn’t bear to part with her favorites. And she took the jewelry box and some of the lotion and perfume bottles. She lined up the remaining bottles in perfect order. She left no clothes lying around. No sign of lace bras or thongs. But on the bed, she left a box with a handwritten note attached.
I stole this stuff. It belongs to Monique Kimball.

I open the box. Inside I find Monique’s pen, makeup, journal. “You looked in here?” I say to Pedra.

She nods, sniffing.

“I’m so sorry,” I say. “Do you know where she went?”

Pedra shakes her head, trembling. “The police, they say they can do nothing. She is eighteen.”

“She didn’t press charges against Adrian, did she?” My heart is sinking.

“Don tried to get her to. He went to Adrian’s apartment. They’re gone. The place is empty. She talks to you—I thought she might have called you. She’s not answering her phone.”

I hug Pedra again. “She didn’t call. I’m sorry.”

“I tried so hard. Don and I. We tried to keep her under control. She’s under that boy’s spell.”

“I know you’re worried about her. You did everything you could. She has to save herself. We have to hope she’ll come around.” I hold on to Pedra and let her sob against my shoulder. There is nothing else to be done.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Johnny and I take the stone path at 24 Oceanview Lane. The house is unfurnished. A heavy lock on the front door prevents us from entering.

I tiptoe through the grass to the bay window. A breeze lifts my hair. The interior rooms entice me—gleaming oak floors, tile entryway, vaulted ceilings. I can see all the way back through the sliding French doors to the grassy dunes and the sunlit ocean beyond.

Johnny comes up beside me. He cups his hands against the window. “Helluva view. What do you think?”

“I have to see the inside.”

He produces the key he borrowed from the Realtor, unlocks the door, and opens it. Inside, the house smells freshly painted.

Johnny heads down the spacious hallway to the bedrooms, while I linger in the foyer, touching the unopened envelope in my pocket. I barely had time to grab the mail on my way out. The box held only two items, a credit card bill and this letter. I have not yet shown it to Johnny.

“This could be your writing studio,” he calls out. “When your mom gets back, she’ll love the guest room.”

“My mother won’t stay,” I say, too softly for him to hear. I walk back through the kitchen, open the sliding glass doors to the deck. The lullaby of the surf mingles with the call of seagulls. The wind rustles through the dune grasses. A silhouette of a man strolls along the beach, a black dog weaving around him.

“Did you hear me?” Johnny comes up behind me, his boots echoing on the floor.

“Loud and clear.” I can also hear Natalie’s voice, all the way from India.
What if there’s a tsunami? You’ll be way too close to the ocean.

“You’re not impressed?” he says.

“The house is lovely.”

“But?”

“I don’t know.” About so many things. “I’m going for a walk.” I head down the path across the dunes.

Johnny doesn’t follow, as if he senses my need to be alone. When I reach the waterline, I pull out the letter. In the distance, long-necked cormorants ride the waves, and farther out, a freighter glides along the horizon.

I open the envelope and unfold the letter. At the top is the logo of Northwest DNA Testing Services. My fingers shake as I read on.

Based on the DNA Analysis, the alleged Father, Jonathan McDonald, cannot be excluded as the biological Father of the Child, Mia Beaumont, because they share the same genetic markers. The probability of the stated relationship is indicated below, as compared to an untested, unrelated person of the same ethnicity.

Probability Percentage: 99.9942%

The words blend together in a blur. The surf laps across my shoes, cold on my toes, but I barely notice.

Johnny is calling to me now, traipsing down across the dunes. “You okay?” he shouts. “Come on back. There’s a storm coming in.”

So there is. I stand poised between land and sea, past and future, the rain soaking my skin, the wind in my hair.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I’m deeply grateful for all the people who’ve encouraged and believed in me through the years, including my relatives, my husband, my friends, and Marilyn Lundberg. A heartfelt thank-you to my brilliant editor at Amazon Publishing, Tara Parsons, amazing copy editor Ben Grossblatt, the wonderful Amazon team; and to my fabulous agent, Paige Wheeler, her assistant Ana-Maria Bonner, and their astute readers; and my outstanding foreign rights agent, Taryn Fagerness.

As always, I’m thankful for the talented and supportive authors in my writing group: Susan Wiggs, Sheila Roberts, Elsa Watson, Kate Breslin, and Lois Dyer.

To South Kitsap Fire Chief Wayne Senter (retired): thank you for spending hours on the phone with me, patiently answering my questions and relating bizarre stories from your distinguished career in firefighting. Truth really is stranger than fiction. Thank you also for reading the fire passages in the manuscript for technical accuracy, and for your support and enthusiasm.

I’m deeply indebted to the wise and experienced Maggie Crawford, editor extraordinaire, who guided me through developmental revisions and pushed me to do my best.

Thanks to Rich Penner and Stephen Messer, who read versions of my opening chapters and offered useful feedback. To my hiking buddies Randall Platt, Dianne Gardner, Patricia Stricklin, and Elizabeth Corcoran Murray: what would I do without you? Thanks to Andrea Hurst, a great colleague, mentor, and friend. Thank you to the Friday Tea brainstorming group, including, but not limited to, Terrel Hoffman, Toni Bonnell, Carol Caldwell, Sandi Hill, Jana Bourne, Jan Symonds, and Misty McColgan (Misty gave me the great idea for the Miracle Mouse portrait). Anita and Christa LaRae, thank you for brainstorming lunches. Santhan Giarratano, thank you for brainstorming at the pool. Pets and treats for my five feline muses: Ruby, Teddy, Simon, Luna, and Tiny. You’re the best furballs anyone could hope to love.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Photo © 2015 Carol Ann Morris

A. J. Banner illuminates the darkest corners of the human heart with her stories of suspense. Born in India and raised in Canada and California, she earned degrees from the University of California, Berkeley. An avid hiker, swimmer, and animal lover, she lives on the Olympic Peninsula in Washington State with her husband and four rescued cats.