The Neighbors (31 page)

Mickey’s shoulder hit the wall as he tried to gain his balance. His head throbbed like a pulsating star, each palpitation rattling his teeth, each beat assuring him that his brain was about to explode. He stumbled through the dim hallway, caught himself on the frame of Drew’s bedroom door, left a bloody handprint on the wall before pushing forward, stumbling headlong toward his room.

Caked in blood and bits of flesh, the candlestick fell from Harlow’s hands and thumped against the carpet. Bent over the wreckage that was Red’s body, she wept into her hands. Her shoulders shook with each sob, each cry creeping closer to hysteria, each weep a veritable scream—her cries mimicking the screaming inside Andrew’s head.

Drew turned away from the sight of her, the sight of
him
, laid out like some highway accident. He rushed into the kitchen, covering his mouth with a hand to keep himself from screaming, from vomiting, from exhaling a devastated wail. He nearly
tripped over a spilled paper bag of groceries. Fruits and vegetables were scattered across the floor next to Harlow’s purse, a shopping list lying on the ground next to the gun she’d shot Red with. He blinked at the list, Harlow’s perfect script etched into the paper; her confidence that Andrew wasn’t planning to leave her, that they had a bright future together, was written out in careful loops.

His eyes darted across the kitchen to the door leading into the garage. All he had to do was make a run for it. He’d bolt into the street and scream for help; he’d stumble onto the sidewalk before running as fast as he could, run until he was back on Cedar Street, standing in front of his disheveled childhood home—not perfect, but better than this.

He stepped forward, grabbed the gun off the floor—and nearly screamed when Harlow caught him by the wrist, her bloodstained fingers slick on his skin. Reeling backward, he tore his arm from her grasp, tripping over his own feet as he stumbled along the cabinets, desperate to put distance between them.

Harlow’s expression seesawed between devastation and resentment. And when he pointed the gun at her with a shaky hand, resentment bloomed into full-blown heartbreak.

Harlow couldn’t believe it. The two of them had made a connection; Drew knew what she was going through. And yet there he stood, pointing her own gun at her, scared out of his mind. She had wanted him because they were both broken. He made her happy, made her feel like the girl she used to be. But the moment he saw how broken she really was, he turned on her. The boy she was sure she could love, who could potentially fix her, if only for a little while, was trembling in front of her like a leaf in the wind, utterly terrified.

“Are you going to shoot me?” she asked, her words unsteady with emotion. “
Me
, Andy? You’re going to kill me?”

She looked back to the living room, her eyes glistening with tears. She had made a mistake. Red
had
been the one, and she’d killed him.

Everything was ruined. Andrew had turned her against her husband. He had manipulated her. He had pretended he cared, won her heart, and tricked her into pushing Red away. And now, at the moment of reckoning, the moment he should have stepped up to the plate and taken her hand in understanding, he was going to shoot her instead.

She narrowed her eyes at the kitchen counter, remembering all the meals she’d made for him, how sweet she’d been. He would have been dead days ago if she had wanted him to be, but she’d kept the little shit alive—and for what? He was just like Isaac. Spoiled. Unappreciative. Selfish. Her fingers wrapped around the hilt of a carving knife, pulling it from its block.

When the stormy light gleamed off the knife blade, Andrew’s heart came to a stop. Harlow’s white dress was spattered with red, like polka dots—the gory opposite of his mother’s church dress. Harlow’s typically buoyant hair hung limp around her face, wet and slick with crimson. The knife winked in the filtered sunlight, and in his panic, Drew could see specks of dust through the air like tiny stars. His dream had all but predicted this scene; all that was left was for that knife blade to plunge into his chest.

She lunged at him.

He exhaled a tortured yell, pulling the trigger. He felt a metallic click beneath the pressure of his grip, but there was no earsplitting gunshot. He pulled again, Harlow nearly on him now, but it didn’t shoot. The damn thing was empty. She had used the last bullet to save Andrew’s life—only to kill him herself.

Drew scrambled backward, tripping over his feet. The gun slid across the floor while Harlow hovered over him, that knife held high over her head.

And then, the sound of a shotgun being cocked.

Mickey Fitch stood in the doorway leading to the basement.

Andrew’s eyes widened. Mickey looked as though he’d torn out someone’s jugular with his teeth—a vampire rising from the basement of a house he didn’t belong in.

Harlow veered around. “Mickey,” she said, Drew’s stomach turning at the relief in her tone. “Get busy. It’s time to work.”

She dropped the knife in the sink and stepped to the side, exposing Andrew to the barrel of Mickey’s gun. Mick narrowed his eyes at the boy on the floor while Drew’s heart thudded in his throat.

Andrew’s head spun. So that was it, then—they worked together. That was how Harlow had known so much; that was why Mickey didn’t seem to have a day job. Because he housed Harlow’s victims. He held on to them for her until she was ready to strike.

“Don’t,” Drew said. “Mick, please.”

“Shut up,” Harlow snapped, looking back to her employee. “What are you waiting for?”

Mickey aimed the gun and fired.

Drew threw his hands over his head, a garbled scream erupting from his throat. He waited for the pain, for the blood, for death to grasp him by the throat and choke the last breath from his body. But when the buckshot failed to bite into his flesh, he opened his eyes.

Harlow swayed where she stood, staring at Mickey’s bloodied face, the tremor of the gunshot gently rocking her back and forth. Her eyes were wide, her expression dazzled.

“You,” she said, her mouth curling up in a ghostly smile. “Don’t forget who your boss is.”

She tipped forward, didn’t extend her arms—and hit the ground.

Mickey stepped over her body with an unsteady stride. He extended a hand to Andrew, but Drew scrambled away, terrified by the monster that stood before him. He jumped to
his feet, backing away from this perversion of his childhood friend.

He opened his mouth to say something,
anything
, but there were no words.

Mickey attempted to speak, but all he managed to do was expel a river of blood down his already gory chin.

“Oh God, Mick,” he said. “Oh Jesus, what...?”

Mickey mutely shook his head, motioning for Drew to get out of there.

“But you need help,” Drew insisted. “I can’t—”

Mickey cut him off midsentence by cocking his gun and pointing it square at Andrew’s chest. He nodded to the door, and this time Drew didn’t hesitate. He backed up, his palms out in surrender, staring at his bloodied roommate for a second longer before turning around and running.

Running straight for home as hard as he could.

He didn’t stop, even when he heard the third gunshot explode behind him.

He ran into the rain for an eternity, but the house on Cedar Street was finally in front of him. The steps sagged, the mailbox sat crookedly in the ground; the curtains on the front windows hung as limp as they ever did. Collapsing onto his hands and knees, Andrew wanted to weep grateful tears at its disarray. It was still there. It hadn’t disappeared, hadn’t been swallowed by a tornado the way he’d hoped so many times.

Staggering up the front steps, he shoved the front door open and stepped into its murky dimness. The television flickered in hues of blue. The coffee table he’d overturned before he had left was clear—nothing but a couple of mugs dotting its otherwise pristine surface—but the uncharacteristic cleanliness of the living room hardly registered. His mother’s bare feet hung
over the edge of the sofa, and for a moment he was sure she was dead.

“Mom.” The word cracked the silence of the room as he lurched toward the couch. “Mom, I’m home.”

His bloodied hands hit the arm of the sofa as he leaned forward, dizzy from his run, numbed by the gory images stamped onto his memory, weak with fear.

Julie Morrison sat up with a start when her son crawled over the arm of the couch and into her arms. As soon as she moved, he curled into her the way he used to as a child, clinging to her as he hid his face against her shoulder.

“My God,” she said, “Drew.” She pushed him away to get a better look at him. “Oh my God, Drew!” she repeated, seeing the wound on his shoulder. “What happened?” she asked, jumping to her feet.

“Nothing,” he told her, only coming to realize that he was crying when his breath hitched in his throat.

“What do you—
Nothing?
You need to go to the hospital.”

Looking up at her from the couch, he saw nothing but deliverance. Her hair was disheveled, her cheek crosshatched with an impression of the sofa’s upholstery—but this was his mother: broken but perfect.

He reached out to her, but she turned away. His heart sank, sobs tearing themselves free from the depths of his soul. She was rejecting him; she didn’t want him back.

“Andrew.” Her voice sounded far away. His shoulder stung when she shook him. He blinked past his tears, her slippered feet planted on the floor in front of him, the hem of a coat brushing the ankles of her sweats. “We have to go,” she said, catching him by the arm.

“What?” He stumbled to his feet, confused.

“We have to go,” she repeated. “You need help.”

Guiding him to the front door, she hesitated as he wobbled onto the porch. He looked back at her, still unable to comprehend
what was happening. Was she kicking him out? But rather than slamming the door in his face, Julie Morrison took a steadying breath and stepped over the threshold of her front door.

He watched her push past her fear, astonished by the sight.

“Everything is going to be OK,” she reassured him, catching his hand in hers.

He didn’t know how true that was, but it didn’t matter. He nodded anyway. Following her down the porch steps, she looked back at him, bewildered.

“Where’s your truck?”

“I don’t—I left it...”

But rather than going back inside, she squeezed his hand and pulled him toward the sidewalk, leading the way.

This was an emergency.

The neighbors would help.

A
s usual, many thanks go out to an army of people, without whom
The Neighbors
wouldn’t have been possible. To the folks at Amazon, you’re all amazing. Without you and your constant reassurance, I’d probably have died of a heart attack by now. To my agent, David, thanks for reading my novel-length e-mails, for holding my hand in the streets of Manhattan, for introducing me to “the big boys,” and for making me feel like your favorite author and only client. I’m determined to overstep my nemesis and win
all
of your gushing shortly. To Tiffany, my superstar content editor, you’ve ruined me. Your direct uplink into my brain is a scary thing. How did I ever live without you? To my friends and family, thank you for the constant encouragement and unwavering confidence that this crazy writing thing is going to work out. To my husband, Will, without you, I would have never made it this far. I love you. And finally, to the readers who have cheered me on since the early days of
Seed
, you guys are awesome. Stories are nothing if they aren’t read and loved. Thank you for giving life to my work.