N9ne: The Tale of Kevin Clearwater (King, #9)(16)

“Even in the grave, all is not lost,” I mutter, but even an EAP quote doesn’t give me any comfort today, because Edgar Allan Poe may not feel like all is not lost, even in the grave, but then again, he isn’t leaving the cemetery where his parents are buried.

I pull my flask from my purse and tip it up. I catch the Uber driver’s concerned look in the rearview.

At least, someone cares.





After the visit to the cemetery, lamenting about the past, and dropping off the keys, I’m emotionally spent. I make one last stop at the liquor store before the Uber takes me home.

He drops me off at the gate, and I hit the clicker on my keychain. It swings open, and with vodka in one hand and my muddy heels in the other, I walk up the long drive. I hit another button on my clicker, and the doors of all three garage bays slowly open, but they’re empty, save for my car in the bay on the far right.

I expect Jared to be home, since his office closed hours ago, but his Bentley isn’t here. His trip is tomorrow. I check my watch. It’s only seven. He’s probably just running a little late.

Inside, the house is completely dark. I click on the light and toss my shoes to the floor.

I hear a board creak upstairs. There’s a light on in our bedroom. “Jared? Is that you? Where’s your car?” I call out. Maybe, he had drinks with some of his employees and Ubered home. Maybe, I’m rubbing off on him, after all.

Another creak.

“The company is officially closed, and years of hard work are now officially all for nothing. My calendar is clear until I get another job, so get down here and help me drown my sorrows, or at least, keep me company while I drown them myself.” I wave the bottle of vodka around in the air, expecting Jared’s head to pop out of our bedroom at any moment.

“Jared?” I ask again, when said head doesn’t appear.

Still, no answer.

I take my phone out of my pocket and remove my blazer, tossing it over one of the dining room chairs, and head up the stairs. All of our bedroom lights are on, but there’s no Jared. It smells like a hospital, like cleaning supplies and bleach. Either Jared cleaned for the first time ever, or the more likely explanation, the maid came early this week.

“Stupid creaky, wood floors,” I mutter to myself. For someone who watched entirely way too many horror movies as a child, these noisy floors have caused me at least a few dozen sleepless nights. Well, I choose to blame them for my sleepless nights, they may not have always been the reason.

I turn the lights off in the bedroom and notice that Jared’s closet light is still on. I dial Jared on my phone and immediately get the three-toned sound you get when a line has been disconnected. I must have hit the wrong speed-dial button, or there’s an issue with his cell service. I pad across the room and reach behind his closet door feeling for the light switch. I try calling him again. Same tones. Weird.

I click off the light and turn to leave, then freeze with one foot raised mid-step. Panic chokes me, and I try and swallow it down, but my throat feels like sandpaper.

I’m going to turn back around, and I’m going to laugh at myself when I realize it’s all in my head. I didn’t really see what I think I did. I didn’t. I DIDN’T! Jared’s right, I am crazy, because it’s not possible. It’s just not possible.

I turn slowly back toward the closet and take a deep breath before flipping the switch back on. I gasp and cover my mouth with both hands.

It’s more than possible. It’s very real.

With the exception of the dozens of clothes-less hangers, Jared’s closet, which as of this morning was full of his things, is now completely empty.





Chapter Seven





NINE





Stalking is such sweet sorrow.

It can also be boring as fuck.

At least, it is in this case. Screw all those movies that make it look like the guys are totally getting off on watching the unknowing girl. If I hadn’t found half an Adderall in my jeans pocket earlier, I’d be fucking snoozing.

Jared’s computer is clean. There’s nothing on it but his search history, which includes a lot of Asian porn sites with women of questionable legal age and little else.

Jared Cox’s girlfriend, the one he was obviously about to leave high and dry, Lenore Leary is smart. I know this because when I hacked into the computer the day after Jared became a corpse, I discovered that her mic is disabled and that she’s got a piece of tape over the camera. She’s either a paranoid conspiracy theorist and thinks that the government or big brother is watching her, or paranoid that someone else might be.

And she’d be right on at least one of those accounts.

I mean, I’ve got a piece of tape over my own as well, but that’s because I’ve got shit to hide, which means she could, too. And that something is hopefully our money.

The other thing she’s hiding is her face. Not only can I not see her on the camera, but there’s not a single picture of her anywhere, which is odd because there are pictures of her now deceased douche of an ex everywhere. Even pictures at events where it states their names together in the caption as attending together only shows pictures of Dead Jared, pre-death of course, smiling and raising his glass with a bunch of other men who could be auditioning for Jared’s stunt double. It makes me wonder if those kinds of guys get a group discount on suits, watches and haircuts, because they’re all wearing the same sad-looking grey suit and flashing the same gold Cartier watches, and have the same all-American boy-next-door, dye my grey hairs with shoe polish and hope nobody notices, but everyone notices hairstyles.