Fury on Fire (Devil's Rock #3)(15)

The episode was almost over when she heard her neighbor’s door open and shut. Without getting up, she pushed the mute button and angled her head, listening as keys jangled. She heard North Callaghan’s steady tread over the concrete of their shared porch.

She resisted the impulse to go to the window and spy on him through her blinds. Along with fighting down that impulse, she crushed the flare of curiosity over where he was going, what he was doing—who he was doing. None of her business.

She sat rock-still on her couch, her fingers clutched tightly around her spoon. He had to have seen the new note by now. She waited, imagining him grabbing it off his windshield. She envisioned the tall length of him standing in their driveway as he read it. Maybe. Probably. Perhaps now his conscience would prevail upon him and guide him to her door. She listened for a knock.

An engine started. That was a no then. He wasn’t coming to her door.

She gave a sigh of disgust, unmuted the TV and went back to watching her show where everything was laughter and everyone was happy and life was full.



She was a persistent little thing. Well, not little. He’d seen enough of her body through the blinds to know that.

He crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it toward her door like he had done before. Hopefully she would find it later on her front porch. It was for the best. Let her get the message that he would never be in the running for Neighbor of the Year. The best way to kill his interest in his mysterious neighbor was to scare her off—all within legal means, of course. He wasn’t going back to jail for any reason. He’d die first, because that’s what prison would be the second time around—a death sentence.

Once in his truck, he drove to Bob’s BBQ Shack and ordered some brisket, ribs and sausage to go. He also ordered a side of potato salad that rivaled his aunt Alice’s. He’d spent many a summer eating potato salad and fried chicken, crowded around his grandparents’ kitchen table, his future a distant rose-tinted mirage. He smiled faintly. Those had been good times. Not every memory of his past was a bucket of shit.

Climbing back behind the wheel, he set a brown bag full of smoked meat on the seat beside him. The delicious aroma filled the cabin of his truck as he made his way back home to eat his dinner alone.





SIX




Faith woke to a persistent knocking, broken up by the swift pings of her doorbell. A quick glance at her clock revealed it to be half past midnight.

She stumbled groggily from her bed. Rubbing at her eyes, she paused as she caught a glimpse of herself in the hallway. She’d looked better. The day she took a softball to the face her freshman year she had looked better than this. Her hair stuck up in a haphazard bun, strands sticking out wildly from every direction on her head. A T-shirt that had belonged to Tucker, circa 2005, complemented a pair of baggy pajama bottoms that she would never get rid of on threat of death.

The doorbell rang again, prompting her to action.

The pièce de résistance was the green avocado mud mask she’d applied to her face for the night. Her former roommate Bonnie swore by the stuff, and since Bonnie’s mother was sixty years old and looked thirty-five, Faith tended to believe all of Bonnie’s beauty tips, as they had all been passed down from her mother.

Flattening her hands on her door, she peered out the peephole. The low glow off her porch light illuminated Serena standing in front of her door. Or rather swaying in front of her door.

Faith frowned. Maybe the woman was fleeing from Faith’s jackass neighbor? Maybe he was a brute. An abusive brute. Faith had seen horrible things as a social worker, and she had heard stories all her life in whispered undertones between her father and mother, and then later between her father and brother, about events they had witnessed in the course of their day-to-day work. What did she really know about North Callaghan, after all?

She quickly unbolted the door and yanked it open. “Serena? Is everything all right?” She surveyed the woman with an eye for injuries, searching for any evidence of abuse.

Serena blinked. Dropping her chin, her gaze started at Faith’s feet, slowly working her way up to the top of her head with wide eyes, not missing a single thing. “You’re not North,” she finally proclaimed.

It took a long moment for Faith to register this declaration and what it signified—along with Serena’s booze-laden breath. “No. I am not North.” Annoyance pricked at her chest. “Are you looking for him?”

“Ohh!” She smacked her forehead hard enough to make Faith wince. “You’re the scone lady! Hey . . .” She took an unsteady step forward, inching inside Faith’s house. “You got any more of them in here? Those were goooood.”

Faith lifted her hands and set them on Serena’s shoulders, giving her a gentle push back to keep her from entering her house. “No. I don’t have any more scones. Sorry. Is there something I can help you with, Serena? Are you hurt?” Faith swung a quick glance sideways, as though she expected her neighbor to jump out from the shadows.

“Hurt? No! I’m not hurt.” She attempted to step inside again, saying, “You got North in there? North! North! Come out!”

“Wh-what?” She shook her head in bewilderment. “No, he’s not in here. Why would you think that he’s in—”

“You’re in his house.” She blinked and tilted her head back to look up at Faith. “If he’s not here, then where is he?”