Good Neighbors(62)

Dave’s mom, Jane Harrison, was standing under the small hall chandelier next to Rhea Schroeder. Dave was at the top of the stairs, his view partially obstructed. He could only see his mom’s floral skirt, Rhea’s loose linen. He had the bizarre impulse to chuck an ax at the chandelier. It would fall, pinning them both to the floor like old-school criminals.

“Did you hear about the twins and Lainee Hestia? He got to them, too!” Jane exclaimed. She kept her voice low, like gossiping about the neighbors was a secret best kept from fourteen-year-old boys.

The worst part was, nobody talked about Shelly anymore. Nobody wondered whether she was still alive down there, a frightened and lonely miracle.

“Sam Singh, too,” Rhea said. “Maybe all of Nikita’s children. It just came out.”

“Dominoes. My God, Rhea, you must be going crazy. Jail’s not good enough. He ought to be castrated,” Jane said. She was standing on the left side of the Sharpie line that bisected the hall. Like she didn’t care, a super alpha dog, Rhea stood astride. It cut her right in half.

His parents used to hide the Sharpie line from the neighbors, but since the hole and then Shelly, they’d stopped bothering.

“The detective—what’s his name, Bianchi?” Rhea asked. “He was drunk. Is that bad to say? I don’t want to besmirch his character. He’s definitely trying very hard. Maybe just Parkinson’s? Parkinson’s or whiskey. Let’s leave it at that.”

“He swayed?”

“He had to hold on to the door. And he told me there wasn’t enough evidence.”

“How much more evidence do they need?” Jane asked. “Can you imagine the therapy these children will require? The damage? It’s years. As a preschool teacher, I’ll tell you: they’ll never recover. It’s going to hurt through entire generations. I get sick just thinking about it.”

“I’m learning so much about the justice system,” Rhea said. “You hear it’s corrupt. You read it in the paper. But living it’s a whole different thing.”

Dave took a step down the stairs. Then another. Now both women could see him. He glared at Rhea Schroeder, and it was totally unreal, because even though she was a grown woman, she glared right back.

It felt like a bite. Like having your face clamped down on by a python.

His mom acted like it was normal. Like it was totally cool for this lady to be standing in his hall, visually skewering him. He figured it out right then. His mom was scared of Rhea. And the reason Rhea was glaring like she hated him was because she really did hate him. He was the only Rat Pack member not to come out against Arlo Wilde. He hadn’t toed her line.

Dave looked away. Rhea relaxed, victorious.

“A neighborhood watch is a marvelous idea,” Jane said.

“Oh, I’m so relieved you agree. I hate to seem overboard,” answered Rhea.

“I think you’re calm.”

“Oh, good. I’m glad. We’ll take turns. One house at a time. I’ve spoken with everyone but the Benchleys—they’re leaving for Florida. And the Atlases. She’s too sick. Plus, they don’t have children. I don’t think they really understand any of this. Did you know Fred tried to find Arlo a lawyer? Can you believe that?”

“We’re the last?” Jane interrupted. “You should have come sooner! I’m very good at organizing.”

“I came this morning but you weren’t home. You would have been third.”

“Third’s good. That’s part of the club.” She said this like she was making a joke, but she absolutely wasn’t.

“Great. Either Linda, Marco, or FJ will drop off the schedule. We’ve all got two-hour shifts. It’s very important. You can’t shirk or who knows where that pervert’ll strike.”

Jane nodded.

“I’ve been very clear with the Pontis and it bears repeating. Violence is the last option. This watch is to keep that from happening,” Rhea said.

“Don’t you worry, sweetheart. Whatever happens, I’m on your side.”

Rhea smiled. “That means so much… But there are no sides. Arlo’s in pain, or he wouldn’t have done the things he’s done.”

Jane made this funny barking sound. A cry. Voice cracking, she said, “I don’t know how you can be so understanding.”

Dave came halfway down the stairs, alarmed by the sound of his mother’s pain.

“I hope you never have to understand,” Rhea answered. “Take care of your mother, Dave. Bye-bye, Tim,” she called, and then was gone.

Tim?

Stomach tight, Dave looked behind. There was his dad in a ratty bathrobe, unshaven. Bitumen still caked the creases of his eyes. Three days since he’d been part of that brick-throwing mob, and he still hadn’t washed it off.

His mom, down below, looked up. Direct eye contact. Not with Dave. She took a baby step over the Sharpie line. You never knew when this kind of thing would blow up. When they’d start yelling horrible things at each other. In his mind, Dave psychically blew her back into the safe zone. Then he blew her out of the house. Then he blew the whole house away and was free.

For a sick man, his dad took the stairs fast. They met like that, each facing the other. Standing close, his dad spoke directly to his mom for the first time in recent memory. “I’ll help with the neighborhood watch.”