The Neighbors (28 page)

Mickey’s eyes were wide, wild, and feral. Red backed away from him, stumbling until the backs of his calves hit the row of cabinets behind him. The syringe dangled there, stabbed into the meat of Mickey’s neck. Red had pushed the plunger down, shooting his wife’s former employee full of propofol, and Mick had dropped instantly, but instead of passing out again—peaceful and quiet—he bucked on top of the table. His arms and legs went rigor mortis stiff. The cords of his neck stuck out like ropes pulled tight beneath the skin. He seized, convulsing so violently that his thrashing threatened to toss him onto the floor—and all Red could do was watch while Mickey Fitch bit through the flesh of his tongue.

“Oh God,” Red groaned. Why, oh fucking
why
had he used an entire vial of anesthetic? It had been an accident—but it was precisely what Harlow had wanted.

Mickey foamed at the mouth, the bubbles of his spit tinged a brutal crimson. The syringe swung side to side like a metronome before coming loose and falling to the floor. Mick was dancing with the Reaper; there was no doubt in Red’s mind that the kid was dying. Scrambling back onto his stool, he waited for it to be over, pressing a hand over his eyes, trying to ignore the sound of Mickey’s shoes banging against the metal as he thrashed. But he couldn’t ignore the choking. Mickey coughed as he shook, asphyxiating on a mouthful of blood. It boiled over his lips, spitting up like a sloppy volcano. There was something about the
arcs of crimson that leapt from Mickey’s mouth, something that threw Red into motion—a pang of guilt, a sense of responsibility, a genuine need to not let Harlow win.

Bolting to the table in the center of the room, Red’s hands clamped down on Mickey’s arm and threw it forward. It took all his strength to roll Mick onto his side as he continued to convulse, making it impossible for Red to get a firm grip. So Red did the only thing he could: he took a step back, extended his arms in front of him, and lunged forward. Mickey careened off the table and hit the floor with a slap, rolling onto his stomach. The force of impact steadied the involuntary jerking of his body until he was still, a small lake of blood gathering around his mouth. Red dropped to his knees, shaking him by the shoulder as if shaking were the antidote to a lethal overdose.

“Wake up,” he said, his fingers biting into Mickey’s shoulder. “Wake up, you son of a bitch!”

He realized the impossibility of his request as the words tumbled out of his throat, knowing Mickey wouldn’t wake up because he couldn’t; knowing that if he could, he’d kill Red first and wonder what the hell happened later. Pulling his hand away, he stared at the bleeding man before him, unnerved.
At least if he dies now, you know you tried to help him
, he thought.
At least if he dies, you can say you did your best.

If Mickey died, Harlow would think Red did it for her. He was supposed to cut Mickey up and bury the evidence all over Kansas—this was to be his act of devotion to her. But if he was going to become the monster Harlow wanted him to be, he’d be damned if Mickey Fitch was going to be his first victim. The rope, the tarp...those were for someone else—someone who truly deserved it.

Drew spent the rest of the day on the Wards’ couch, staring at the television, trying to make himself as small as possible. After his attempt at mowing the lawn had been derailed, he had climbed the stairs to retrieve his truck keys. He wouldn’t deny that it was dangerous outside, but the truck would keep him safe enough. But the moment she spotted him descending the stairs, she plucked those keys out of his hand and dropped them into the pocket of her apron. Harlow had made herself clear: she wanted Drew inside.

Andrew didn’t want to do anything to draw attention to himself. He didn’t want her coming over to talk, didn’t want to feel her hand on his leg or see her teeth when her mouth pulled back in a smile. He needed space, and he thought he was being pretty obvious about it.

But Harlow was either missing all his signals or ignoring them altogether. She spent the morning making apple pancakes. In the afternoon, she made a pile of tea sandwiches with the crusts cut off. By the time dinner rolled around, he wanted to bury himself in the backyard, but coq au vin was already on the table, complete with a bottle of red wine and a basket of Harlow’s home-baked bread.

It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy being spoiled; after a decade of eating nothing but fast food and boxed mac and cheese, Drew thought Harlow’s gourmet cooking was like water in the Mojave. But it was terrifying to see her acting the way she was.

And that horror was magnified when Harlow sauntered over, placed a hand on his shoulder, and whispered into his ear, “Why don’t you sit over there?” She nodded toward Red’s empty recliner. “That’s your place now. Go on. Give it a spin.”

By the time he sat down at the dining room table, his stomach was a ball of anxiety. He was on the verge of screaming, ready to jump up like a man on fire—jump up and run the hell away. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Rick Morrison lurked at the back of his mind.

He had mixed feelings toward his father—love, hate, disappointment, sadness; he missed him but never wanted to see him again; he loved him but couldn’t stand the sound of his name. There were days when he couldn’t bring himself to crawl into that pickup truck, days where he couldn’t look his mother in the eye because although she was looking right at him, he knew the reflection in her eyes wasn’t his. At the end of the day, Rick Morrison had destroyed their family. He had walked out on them both, taking hope and happiness with him—the same hope and happiness Drew had once seen on Harlow’s front doorstep, in the carefully cared-for flowers along the picket fence. The joy that his mother had lost danced at the corners of Harlow’s mouth; the passion she had lived in Harlow’s laugh, in the way she threw her head back and smiled toward the sky. It was what had broken him—that need, that yearning to get it all back, to have what he’d been missing for so long. He wished Harlow weren’t who she was. If she could only be split into two—his mother, the happy housewife; his girl, so beautiful it hurt to look at her.

After a few minutes of chewing around Tony Bennett’s vocals, Harlow put down her fork, squared her shoulders, and swirled her wine as she gazed across the table.

“I found a few boys,” she said, lifting the glass to her lips.

Putting his fork down, Andrew stared at his plate.

“To work around the house,” she clarified, “since you won’t be doing it anymore.”

The wind rattled the windows. He couldn’t remember a storm that had ever lasted this long.

“Andy?” There was concern in her voice. She didn’t like his silence.

Drew hesitated, eventually forcing the words from his throat.

“What am
I
supposed to do?”

Harlow shook her head, not understanding the question. He furrowed his eyebrows, still not meeting her gaze.

“Andy.” She chuckled. “What are you saying? That you
want
to do menial work? You want to cut grass for a living?” She lifted her glass to toast him. “You’re better than that, baby. You’re better than that and you know it.”

“I wasn’t better than that a few days ago,” Drew said softly.

“Things change.”

“I can’t just sit around,” he protested. “I need the cash.”

Harlow leaned forward, her elbows pressed atop the table. She smiled as she swirled her glass, but there was a spark of defiance in her eyes.

“Do you?” she asked. “What for?”

He swallowed against the lump in his throat, daring to look up at her.

“Rent,” he said, his insides lurching with what he knew was to come.

“You can’t go back there.”

Panic flared within the center of his chest.

“It’s poisonous,” she said. “Those chemicals never
really
go away. And besides...” She shrugged a shoulder. “That place is a pit. You’re better than
that
, honey.”

“I can’t just not go back. I made a deal.”

“With who? Mickey Fitch?” She snorted, throwing the rest of her wine down her throat.

Drew blinked when she spit out Mick’s last name. He’d always just been “that Mickey boy” until now. He felt his suspicion start to spiral out of control. “I can’t just walk out on him.”

“What are you,
loyal
to him?” Harlow asked, a hint of envy coloring her words.

When Drew didn’t answer her question, she pushed her chair away from the table and stood.

“It doesn’t matter,” she told him, catching the wine bottle by its neck, pouring herself another glass. “You don’t need to pay rent. That Mickey kid is probably gone for good anyway. And he quite obviously doesn’t care about you, calling that exterminator
without so much as a warning. Well.” She swirled her wine, then took another sip. “We both know that wasn’t the truth, now, don’t we?”

Drew blinked at her. He opened his mouth to speak, to protest or ask what she meant about Mickey not coming back. He
had
to come back. All his stuff was there. And Drew refused to believe Mick would just up and take off without so much as a good-bye. But Harlow lifted her hand and waved away whatever he was about to say, just as she’d waved him away the night Red had stormed down the sidewalk.

“The boys I called will be here bright and early,” she said. “I found them on that Craigslist site, so they’re probably felons, but they’ll do. They’ll bring your things over—at least, whatever things are salvageable. The furniture can’t come, obviously. I won’t have any thrift store trash in my house.”

Drew could do nothing but stare at her. “We’ll move you in first, and they’ll do whatever yard work there is to be done afterward. We’ll find steady help later, when I can put an ad in the paper. Who knows, maybe Mickey will come back and they’ll settle in next door.”

He couldn’t put her words together; they were all mixed up, nonsensical, dancing through the air like cartoon music notes.

“Wait.” It was the only word he managed to croak out before she was at his elbow, angling his chair away from the table so that she had enough room to slide onto his lap.

She pushed his unfinished plate of food away, replacing it with her glass.

He tensed. Wanted to scream. Wanted to push her off him. Because he didn’t understand what was happening. He couldn’t comprehend this sudden spiral into madness.

“Andy,” she said, sliding her fingers through his hair. “This isn’t open for discussion. You’re already here.”

The wind howled.

That evening, the neighborhood dog, with its inconsolable barking, decided to lose its mind again. He barked and yowled, sounding afraid—perhaps trying to warn all of Creekside that the end was near.

Harlow had led Drew by the hand to the master bedroom for the second time, but relented when he ended up bolting for her bathroom, vomiting a stomach full of food into her sparkling toilet. She wrapped her arms around him and rubbed his back, voicing her worries about his sudden bout of indigestion, but he could see a lingering hint of disgust in her eyes. He hadn’t only robbed her of another night of romance, but he’d fouled up her bathroom in the process.

Drew couldn’t sleep. He rolled out of the guest room bed and dragged his feet across the carpet, heavy with queasiness, his nerves completely shot.

It was clear to him now that it was time to go home. What had started out as a fantasy had turned into a nightmare. Mick was gone, as was the dusty comfort of his rental house. Harlow had transformed right before his eyes—perfection gone crazy, her apparent fear of being alone twisting her into something unrecognizable, something that scared him more than his own phobia of turning into his father.

He stopped in front of the window, his heart prickling with nerves as he squinted into the night. He had listened to her walk up and down the hall for over an hour—no doubt scrubbing the toilet at half past midnight, but she was outside now, her bathrobe whipping in the Kansas wind, her matching slippers making her look her age. She stood along the curb, staring at her hands. When she turned, a black smear stood out against clean terry cloth like Hester Prynne’s scarlet letter.

Despite the distance between them and the darkness and the wind, Andrew knew what it was. His gaze wavered, pausing on
his truck, and while it looked untouched, he knew: Tomorrow, when the moving guys came, if he managed to steal his keys back from her, his Chevy wouldn’t start. He would be stuck.