Page 50 of The Guy Next Door

Mike never liked being around too many people.

Beyond the computers are several aisles of books, and a sign indicates there’s another story above us, where their fiction section can be found. As I take a lap around the place, I notice various seating areas throughout. It’d be easy for some stalker to sit at any of these and get a view of whomever they might be watching around here.

This dumb idea’s rolling around in my head that I’ll see some mysterious figure. Maybe a guy in a hoodie, tucked away, acting shady enough that I’ll just know he must be the guy.

I know that’s not how shit works in real life.

And as I’m looking around, I’m struggling to figure out why I’m really here. Is this like with Tolle? No, I feel lucid andclearheaded. And I have a reasonable amount of suspicion in my theories, which wasn’t the case when I was chasing that lead.

Not knowing what the hell to do next, I head upstairs to the fiction section and wander the aisles. There aren’t many people on this floor, and there’s something eerie about heading through the aisles—it’d be easy for someone to hide up here, maybe watch someone through the openings over the books. A stalker could spend weeks in here, waiting for someone and finding a place to settle and keep an eye on Mike or Leif.

I don’t know where I’m going, but I wind up by two shelves’ worth of JD Robb’s books. I settle with this feeling in me, knowing I’m standing in the same spot where Mike must’ve stood.

A warmth comes over me as I embrace that familiar sense, but nearly as quickly, it flees, leaving me hollow. I’m glad I opened up to the moment while it lasted because it’s not the sort of thing I can recreate.

I meander through the aisles, in no hurry, making my way to the King section.

I round the corner to the next aisle, and as I start down it, I catch a glimpse of someone on the other side of the library. Beyond the aisle on the opposite side, they’re sitting at a table-chair setup by a window, but I can only see their back. As I move closer, they come into view, and I freeze.

I recognize that profile.

The hair.

The jawline.

The five-o’clock shadow.

My hands shake as goose bumps prick across my flesh.

Isaac Tolle.

I step back, slowly, cautiously, and head back around the bookcase.

He doesn’t turn, so he must not notice me. Thank God. If he did, he’d call Detective Roth and tell her I was stalking him again.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I can barely think straight.

I followed him for about two weeks, but never in that time had he come by this library. It’s near the college, so of course it’s not a huge surprise that he would be here.

This doesn’t mean what I think it means…does it?

A rush of panic sweeps through me, part of me fearing that maybe I was onto something. Another part of me fears that, even if I wasn’t, now I’m going to start working down the path that led me to fucking nowhere.

My hands are cold, but I’m sweating. And breathing heavily.

Flashes come back to me: watching him through the window of his house; following him around the grocery store; hacking into his email account.

It races through my mind—not only the realities, but how I felt in my heightened emotional state, this otherworldly feeling that seized control of me, had me taking photos of him and collecting a fucking scrapbook’s worth of information about this guy.

And then finally, fabricating evidence against him to get Detective Roth to check him out—an epic fail.

I don’t even know how I get out to the parking lot and to my car. I need to get away from here. Get away from him before he spots me and calls Roth.

I slip into the driver’s seat of my car and take deep breaths, collecting myself. Part of me wants to believe there’s no way I saw whom I just saw.

He could be here, though. He’s a teacher who works nearby. It means nothing.

But another part of me knows better, fears what it might actually mean.