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Next Door

Chapter Five

Danielle sat on her couch, reclining back against Martin, her leg draped over his, and she was very aware that she was not wearing underwear beneath her pajama shorts. Not that it would matter; somehow, he had refused her last night, despite no bra and the skimpy little panties. It seemed Martin was taking this whole taking-things-slow thing seriously.

She was also beginning to think that he was either just being a gentleman or was not sexually attracted to her. The latter was hard to believe, though, because she’d literally felt the proof of his attraction grinding against her legs and hips on the multiple occasions they’d made out.

She tried not to let it bother her. While she was indeed sexually frustrated, there was something to be said about finally finding a man who wanted more than just sex.

Tonight was a great example. They’d chosen to remain low-key, just sitting around her apartment and watching a movie. Beforehand, they had discussed Martin’s day. Yet as an assistant manager at a print shop, there were only so many details to discuss. It was like listening to someone explain how paint dried. As for Danielle, she hated talking about her day. As a bartender at a local restaurant, her days were boring. She sat around and read most of the time. The nights were filled with stories to share but by the time she managed to get some sleep and woke up around one in the afternoon, she never wanted to go over them.

Once the niceties were over, they had kissed a bit, but it was all very PG. Again, Danielle found that she had no problem with that. Besides, ever since Chloe’s visit, she had been bummed out. The mood stabilizers likely wouldn’t even kick in until she took her second pill right before bedtime.

Thanks to Chloe’s visit, Danielle had been thinking about her mother, her father, and the childhood that had passed her by like a warped flicker of film. Really, all she wanted was to be held by Martin—something it pained her to admit to herself.

They’d settled on one of her DVDs, popping in The Shawshank Redemption and curling up together on the couch like a couple of nervous and inexperienced middle school kids. On a few occasions, his hand would slip a little lower than her shoulder and she wondered if he was trying to make a move. But he remained respectable, which was both refreshing and infuriating all at once.

She also noticed that on a few occasions, his phone would ding. It was sitting on her coffee table right in front of them but he elected not to check it. At first, she assumed he was just being polite and not infringing on their date time. But after a while—what Danielle assumed had been at least seven or eight little dings—it started to get obnoxious.

Just as Tim Robbins locked himself in the warden’s office and played some opera music over the PA for the prisoners of Shawshank Prison, it dinged one more time. Danielle looked to the phone and then to Martin.

“Are you going to check on that?” she asked. “Someone must really need you for something.”

“Nah, it’ll be okay,” he said. He pulled her closer and stretched out. They were lying side by side. If she wanted, she could easily kiss his neck. She looked at the exposed space there and thought about it. She wondered how he might react if she kissed him there, maybe softly ran her tongue along the side of his neck.

The phone dinged again. Danielle let out a little chuckle and, without any kind of warning, sprang across Martin’s chest. She grabbed the phone and pulled it to her chest. Stalled at his lock screen, she said, “What’s your pass—”

Martin violently yanked the phone away from her. He looked more surprised than furious. “What was that about?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said. “Just playing around. You can check your phone while you’re with me. I don’t mind. If it’s another girlfriend or something, though, I might have to go bitch-mode on her.”

“I don’t need you to oversee my phone usage,” he snapped.

“Um, hold on. There’s no need to get crazy about it. I was just playing around.”

He sneered at her and shoved the phone in his pocket. He sighed and sat up, apparently no longer interested in cuddling with her.

“Ah, you’re one of those guys, then,” she said, still trying to find the line between joking around and being a little persistent. “Guard your phone like it was your dick or something.”

“Leave it alone,” he said. “Don’t be weird about it.”

“Me? Martin, I thought you were going to break my wrists getting it out of my hands.”

“Well, it’s not your phone now, is it? Don’t you trust me?”

“I don’t know,” she said, raising her voice. “We haven’t been going out all that long. God, there’s no need to get so fucking defensive.”

He rolled his eyes at her and looked at the TV. It was a dismissive gesture, one that pissed her off. She shook her head and, doing her best to keep her playful façade front and center, she quickly straddled him. She reached down as if going for his zipper but then angled for the pocket he had put the phone in. With her other hand, she started to tickle his right side.

He was taken aback, clearly unsure how to respond. Yet the moment her fingers found the edge of his phone, he seemed to flip a switch somewhere. He grabbed her arm and pulled it up in a vise-like grip. He then shoved her down on the couch, not yet letting go of her arm. It hurt like hell but she was not about to let him hear her scream out in pain. The speed and strength he showed reminded her that he had once trained to be an amateur boxer.

“Whoa, let go of my fucking arm!”

He did, looking down at her in surprise. The look on his face made her think he had not intended to get that rough with her. He had surprised even himself. But he was also angry; the furrowed brow and trembling shoulders were evidence of that.

“I’m going to go,” he said.

“Yeah, good idea,” Danielle said. “And don’t even bother calling again unless it’s going to start with an apology.”

He shook his head—whether at himself and his actions or at her, Danielle wasn’t sure. She watched him quickly walk for the door, closing it firmly behind him. Danielle sat on the couch, looking toward the door for several moments as she tried to figure out what exactly had happened.

No interest in screwing me and a surprise temper on him, she thought. That dude might be more trouble than he’s worth.

Of course, she’d always been drawn to that kind of man.

She looked at her arm and saw red splotches where he had grabbed her and shoved her down. She was pretty sure they’d bruise. It wouldn’t be the first time a guy had put bruises on her but she had really not seen it coming from Martin.

She toyed with the idea of chasing after him to see what had gotten into him. But instead, she stayed on the couch and watched the movie. If her past had taught her anything, it was that men simply weren’t worth chasing after. Not even the ones who seemed too good to be true.

She finished the movie by herself and called it a night. As she shut off all the light, she felt like she was being watched—like she was not alone. She knew this was ridiculous, of course, but still could not help but look back to her front door, where the letter had appeared yesterday—and several times before—as if out of nowhere.

She remained on the couch and watched the door, almost expecting another letter to slide through the bottom. And twenty minutes later, when she got up and started getting ready for work, she did so with every light in the apartment on.

Slowly, a creeping paranoia churned within her. It was a familiar one, a feeling that had become something like a close friend over the years—a very close friend ever since those letters started arriving.

She thought of the pills and wondered for a moment if this were all in her head. Everything. Including the letters.

Was any of this real?

She couldn’t help reaching back into her past, reminding herself of the darkness she thought she had escaped.

Was she losing her mind again?

Chapter Six

Chloe sat in the waiting room, looking at the sparse reading selection on the coffee table. She had visited two different therapists following her mother’s death but had not really understood the purpose of those visits. Now, though, at the age of twenty-seven, she knew why she was here. She had taken Greene’s advice and called the on-hand bureau therapist to talk out her reaction to yesterday’s crime scene. Now she found herself trying to recall the offices she had visited as child.

“Ms. Fine?” a woman called from the other side of the room.

Chloe had been so deep in her own thoughts that she hadn’t heard the door to the waiting room open. A pleasant-looking woman waved her back. Chloe got to her feet and tried her best not to feel like a failure as she followed the woman down a hallway and toward a large office space.

She thought back to what Greene had told her yesterday as they had shared coffee. It was still bright and shining in her mind because it had been the first bit of real advice a seasoned agent had ever given her during her very young career.

“I saw this therapist several times my first year. My fourth crime scene was a murder-suicide. Four bodies in all. One was a three-year-old kid. Rattled the hell out of me. So I can tell you without hesitation…therapy works. Especially if you start it at this stage of your career. I’ve seen agents think they’re hot shit and don’t need the help. Don’t be one of those, Fine.”

So no…needing a therapist did not make her a failure. If anything, she hoped it might make her stronger.

She entered the office and saw an older gentleman of about sixty or so sitting behind a large desk. A window behind the desk revealed a small topiary outside, butterflies darting to and fro. His name was Donald Skinner, and he had been doing this for more than thirty years. She knew this because she had Googled him before deciding to make the appointment. Skinner was very prim and proper; he seemed to expand slightly, filling the room a bit more as he walked over to greet her.

He gestured toward a comfortable-looking armchair in the center of the room. “Please,” he said. “Make yourself comfortable.”

She sat down, clearly nervous. She knew she was probably trying a bit too hard to try to hide it.

“Ever done this before?” Skinner asked.

“When I was much younger,” she said.

He nodded as he took a seat in an identical chair positioned in front of hers. When he sat, he hefted his right knee up on his right leg and folded his hands atop them.

“Ms. Fine, why don’t you tell me about yourself…ending with why you are here today.”

“How far back?” she asked, meaning it as a joke.

“For now, let’s just focus on the crime scene yesterday,” Skinner answered.

Chloe took a moment to think and then started. She held nothing back, even delving back into her past a bit to paint that picture for him as well. Skinner listened intently and now mulled over everything he had just been told.

“Tell me,” Skinner said. “So far, out of the crime scenes you’ve visited, was this the grisliest?”

“No. But it was the grisliest thing I’d been allowed to actually see.”

“So you are willing to fully admit that it was this event from your past that caused you to react the way you did?”

“I suppose. I mean, it’s never happened before. And even when it sort if tries to bother me, I can stomp it out pretty easily.”

“I see. Now, are there any other factors that might have come into play? It’s a new city. A new instructor, a new house. There’s a lot of change.”

“My twin sister,” Chloe said. “She lives here in Pinecrest. I figured maybe the idea of seeing her again after a year or so…maybe that did it in addition to the scene being so similar.”

“That could very well be the case,” Skinner asked. “Please forgive me asking such a simple question, but did the murder of your mother lead you to a career with the FBI?”

“Yes. I knew by the time I was twelve, this is what I wanted to do.”

“And what about your sister? What does she do?”

“She’s a bartender. I think she enjoys it because she only has to be social for a few hours of the day and then she can go home and sleep until noon.”

“And does she remember that day the same way you do? Have you spoken about it?”

“We have, but she won’t go into great detail. When I try, she shuts me down pretty much right away.”

“So go into those details with me right now,” Skinner said. “It’s clear you need to discuss it somehow. So why not with me…an impartial party?”

“Well, like I said earlier, it seemed like a pretty basic yet unfortunate accident.”

“Yet your father was arrested for it,” Skinner pointed out. “So to me, as someone not familiar with the case, I don’t lean towards accident. It makes me curious how you can see it so clearly as such. So let’s go over it. What happened that day? What do you remember?”

“Well, it was an accident caused by my father. That’s why he was arrested. He didn’t even lie about it. He was drunk, Mom made him mad, and he pushed her.”

“I’ve given you the chance to go into greater detail and that’s all I’m getting?” Skinner asked in a friendly tone.

“Well, some of it is blurry,” Chloe admitted. “You know how past memories are sort of fogged over with rose-colored glasses?”

“Indeed. So…I want to try something with you. Because this is the first time we’ve met, I’m not going to try hypnosis. I am going to try a proven form of therapy, though. It’s what some refer to as timeline therapy. For today, I hope it might help to dig further details from that day—details that are right there in your mind but have sort of been tucked away because you’re afraid to see them. If you continue to see me, this sort of therapy will eventually help us to pluck the fear and anxiety that arise in you whenever you’re faced with that day. Does that sound like something you’d be willing to undergo today?”

“Yes,” she said without hesitation.

“Okay. Good. So…let’s begin with where you were sitting. I want you to close your eyes and relax. Take a moment or two to clear your head and get comfortable. Give me a tiny nod when you are ready.”

Chloe did as she was asked. She allowed herself to sink back into the chair. It was a very comfortable faux leather armchair. She felt that she was still tensing her shoulders, uncomfortable with being so vulnerable in front of someone she had never met. She sighed deeply and felt her shoulders go limp. She nestled into the chair and listened for the hum of the air conditioner. She found it, listened to its droning, and then gave a nod. She was ready.

“Okay,” Skinner said. “Out on that stoop with your sister. Now, even if you can’t remember the sort of shoes you were wearing that day, I want you to imagine that you are looking at your feet. Look down at your shoes. I want you to focus on them and nothing else—just the shoes you were wearing that day when you were ten years old. You and your sister out on the stoop. But keep your eyes only on those shoes. Describe them to me.”

“Chuck Taylors,” Chloe said. “Red. Scuffed up. Big floppy laces.”

“Perfect. Now study the laces. Really zone in on them. Then I want your ten-year-old self to stand up without looking away from those laces. I want you to stand up and walk back to where you were before discovering the blood on the carpet at the bottom of the stairs. I need you to go back a few hours. But don’t look away from those laces. Can you do that?”

Chloe knew she was not hypnotized but the instructions seemed so simple. So basic and easy. She stood up inside her mind and walked back into the apartment. When she did, she saw the blood, saw her mother.

“Mom is right there at the bottom of the stairs,” she said. “Lots of blood. Danielle is somewhere, crying. Dad is pacing.”

“Okay. But just look at your shoelaces,” Skinner instructed. “And then see if you can go back farther. Can you do that?”

“Yeah. Easy. I’m with Beth…a friend of mine. We just got back from a movie. Her mom took us. She dropped me off and stayed there on the curb until I got inside. She always did that, not pulling away until she saw me go inside.”

“Okay. So watch those shoelaces as you get out of the car and walk up the stairs. Then take me through the rest of the afternoon.”

“I went inside the building and then up to the second floor, where our apartment was. When I walked to the door and pulled out the keys to unlock it, I hear Dad inside. So I just walked in. I closed the door and headed for the living room but saw Mom’s body. It was at the bottom of the stairs. Her right arm was pinned beneath her. Her nose looked all smashed up and there was blood everywhere. Most of her face was covered with it. It was all over the carpet, right there at the bottom of the stairs. I think Dad might have tried to move the body…”

Chloe trailed off here. She was finding it hard to focus on those ratty old shoelaces. She knew the scene she was relaying far too well to ignore it.

“Danielle is standing right there, right over her. She has some blood on her hands and her clothes. Dad is talking really loudly into the phone, telling someone to come quickly, there’s been an accident. When he gets off, he looks at me and starts crying. He threw the phone across the room and it shattered against the wall. He came over to us and hunkered down. He said he was sorry…he said there was an ambulance on the way. He then looked at Danielle and we could barely understand him through the tears. He said Danielle needed to go upstairs. She needed to change her clothes.

“She did, and I followed her. I asked her what had happened but she wouldn’t talk to me. She wouldn’t even cry. Eventually, we started to hear sirens. We sat there with Dad, waiting for him to tell us what would happen next. But he never did. The ambulance arrived, then the police. A friendly policeman took us outside on the stoop and stayed there with us until Dad was brought out in handcuffs. Until they brought Mom’s body out…”

Suddenly, the vision of the busted up shoelaces was gone. She was back on the stoop, waiting for her grandmother to pick them up. The overweight cop was with her and although she didn’t know him, he made her feel safe.

“You okay?” Skinner asked.

“Yeah,” she said with a nervous smile. “The part about Dad throwing the phone…I had totally forgotten about that.”

“How’s the remembered sight of it make you feel?”

It was a hard question to answer. Her father had always been quick to temper but seeing him do it in the wake of what had happened to her mother almost made him seem weak and vulnerable.

“It makes me feel sad for him.”

“Have you blamed him for your mother’s death ever since it happened?” Skinner asked.

“It honestly just depends on the day. Depends on my mood.”

Skinner nodded and broke his statue-like posture. He got to his feet and looked down at her with a reassuring smile.

“I think we’re good for today. Please call me if you experience this sort of reaction to a crime scene again. And I would like to see you again soon. Can we set up an appointment?”

Chloe thought about it and nodded. “We can, but I have a wedding coming up soon and we have all these meetings with florists and bakers…it’s a nightmare. Can I call you with a date?”

“Of course. And until then…stick closely to Agent Greene. He’s a good man. And he was right to direct you to me. Please know that this early in your career, having to come to someone like me to deal with your issues means nothing. It is not a reflection of your talents.”

Chloe nodded. She knew this but it was still nice to hear Skinner say it. She got up and thanked him for his time. As she walked out the door and into the waiting room, she saw her father throwing the phone. But then there was a comment he’d made—one she had not forgotten but had become muddied until today.

He had looked at Danielle and, with something far too close to urgency in his voice, had said: “Danielle, honey…go change your clothes. There’s not much time before they get here.”

That comment rolled through Chloe’s head for most of the remainder of the afternoon, chilling her while also poking at a locked door she had managed to ignore for the last seventeen years.