Neighborly(38)

An ego like his, getting bested by Doug and me for this house . . . Could it be him?

Does your husband know?

Well, he’s about to know about you, you coward. Whether or not Oliver is the psychopath behind the notes, I decide this is one secret I just can’t keep anymore.

I call Doug at work. “Hey there,” he purrs. It’s his I’ve-gotten-laid-recently voice.

“Hey. I’m freaked out.”

“What happened?” His concern is instant.

I take a deep breath and tell him everything. That I’ve been getting notes but I didn’t want to bother him. I wanted to handle it on my own, and I didn’t want to prejudice him against his new neighbors. Everyone’s been so kind, by and large. I hoped I could just forget about the notes.

“But I can’t ignore them anymore,” I say. “Whoever’s writing them has taken it to the next level.”

“What did they do?”

“They stole Part C.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, that part we need for Sadie’s dresser. It was delivered this morning, and now it’s gone.”

“Are you sure it was there, and then it disappeared? Maybe it was never delivered.”

“I had the shipping company ask the delivery guy. He confirmed that he left it. Why would he lie?”

A long pause, and then Doug’s voice takes on an eerily calm quality, like he’s a hostage negotiator or whoever it is who talks suicidal people off ledges. “Because he was covering his ass. He probably delivered it to the wrong house.”

Unlikely, but possible, I guess.

“The notes are weird,” he says. “I’ll give you that. But to think someone’s running around stealing packages?”

“If they can leave notes, why wouldn’t they steal? They’re getting bolder. That’s what scares me.”

“This is a really safe neighborhood, Kat.”

“I want to think so, too.”

“It’s a really expensive neighborhood.” Like I can forget that. I make sure our bills get paid on time. “What I mean is, if one of our neighbors is writing the notes, then they might be eccentric, but I doubt they’re dangerous.” Another pause. “Speaking of eccentric, there’s that lady across the street. The one who’s obsessed with parking. Did you park in her space?”

“No, I haven’t parked in her space. And it’s not Gladys.”

“How do you know?”

“She’s eighty years old. Part C is heavy. It’s particleboard.”

It’s like he didn’t even hear me. “Gladys probably watches the street like a hawk. She doesn’t have anything else going on in her life, so she’s got the time to nurse grudges.” I can hear him warming to his argument. “You said yourself that the handwriting is perfect. She probably had to take penmanship classes in her day. No one under fifty even knows how to write anymore. You think you’re on the geriatric mob hit list?”

We might laugh about this later, but it’s not later. “The last note said, ‘Your poor little girl.’”

“I get why you’re bothered. I know you’re already on edge with the whole move and trying to make a good impression on everyone.”

“Do not make this about me.”

“I’m trying to say that I understand why you’d be upset.”

“But you don’t think I have a reason to be?”

I hear him sigh. “I just don’t want you to work yourself up. Whoever it is—man, woman, aardvark—don’t let them get to you, OK? A bully loves a reaction. We’re talking about high school pranks here. Maybe it’s that Goth girl next door.”

“Maybe.” Though I don’t really think it’s Hope. Somehow, it just feels more adult than that.

“We’ll talk when I get home, OK? We’ll figure out how to make you feel safe.”

“I’m going to call the police.”

“Wait until tonight. I’ll talk to Wyatt when I get home. I’ll see what he thinks we should do.”

That implies that Wyatt is someone to be trusted. We have no idea if that’s the case. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“You wanted to call the police, and Wyatt’s on the force. It just makes sense. I ran into him the other night, and we talked for a half hour. He’s a good guy.”

I read somewhere that the psychological profiles of cops and criminals are extremely similar. They both think they’re above the law. “I don’t want him repeating this to the other neighbors.”

“I’ll tell him it’s just between us. He’s a cop. He knows how to keep things quiet.”

I don’t answer.

“Listen,” he says, “I’m upset, too. I don’t like someone treating you like this. But you know how you can get.”

“How do I get, Doug?”

Now he doesn’t answer.

“Let me help, OK?” he finally says. “Let me talk to Wyatt.”

I know how this will go. He’s determined, and he’ll wear me down, nicely. Because he’s undamaged, so his judgment is above reproach.

But what’s that old saying? Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean nobody’s after you.