Page 19 of The Guy Next Door
That’s a mistake.
He leads me into my own kitchen.
“What are you doing here?” I ask as he sets the pot on the stove.
“Figured I’d give you an update after my visit with the cops.”
“Yeah, I sort of…”
“Followed me to the station? Yeah. I’m more aware since our chat.”
After our visit earlier, I’d tailed him to the station, parking nearby while he met with them. But I thought I was doing a good job keeping my distance.
“I was half expecting them to raid this place,” I say, “but all I got was a voice mail from Detective Roth, asking me to call her back.”
“Funny ’cause no one’s contacted me.” He doesn’t sound happy about that. Like he’s having to come to terms with the fact that the cops aren’t going to take this as seriously as they should.
“What happened?”
He smiles, and I can’t imagine what he has to smile about with everything he has going on. “I hope you like corn bread. I also brought over some coleslaw I made the other day.”
“It’s like getting a visit from Jamie Oliver. Are you avoiding my question because the cops are about to bust down the door?”
I’m joking. I assume they wouldn’t send him into danger if they thought I was a threat, but why isn’t he just getting to what went down?
“I’m only doing what you did to me this morning,” he says. “I wanted answers, and you were…less than forthcoming.”
“Yeah, I was there,” I remind him.
“So why don’t you sit at the table, and I’ll fix us some plates?”
“Okay…”
I take a seat at the table, anxious as fuck. His vengeance is cruel but just. Probably doesn’t hold a candle to what I did to him, so I need to take it on the chin. I’m sure I can safely assume he didn’t tell Roth the truth about last night; otherwise, there’d already be a police vehicle outside my door, not a voice mail. But the details of what he shared matter. If he didn’t say the right thing and the cops interfere, he could fuck this up for both of us. For himself because I won’t be able to keep him safe, and they won’t either. For me because this is my only chance to save my brother.
If he’s even still alive…
“How did you like the stroganoff?” He makes himself at home, searching through the cabinets.
“It was very good,” I confess. “My stomach is incredibly appreciative.”
As he pulls out plates and bowls, he glances over his shoulder, smiling. God, that’s a fucking smile. Between what happened last night and what I told him today, how can he still have such a killer smile?
And that fucking beanie. There’s a shift in my pants. Oh fuck, now’s not the time for a boner. That’ll really freak him out.
“You’re not even gonna give me a hint about what happened?” I ask as he continues prepping.
“Well, I told my parents about the break-in, alerted the Neighborhood Watch, and then got a locksmith to change the lock.”
“You know that’s not what I’m asking about. And that I already saw the locksmith drop by earlier in the day.”
“Which drawer is silverware?”
Fucker.
I direct him, then lean back in my chair, taking advantage of a meal being served to me. Been a long fucking time since I’ve had that.
He fishes some pepper and salt from his backpack and seasons our chili bowls before bringing his concoction over to me, the bowls and silverware set on the plates. He’s not as standoffish as he was this morning, setting my plate and bowl right in front of me. Then he places his on the opposite side of the table and takes a seat.