Natural to want to fuck what was right in front of you, but you couldn’t have; didn’t mean a damn thing.
He made his way through the woods; the path was well worn by now. He remembered how relieved he’d been weeks ago that there wasn’t a path here, indicating there was no connection between the neighbors. Now, the way worn was one he’d created.
Out of necessity, he reminded himself. He was being neighborly, nothing more. Just checking on his vulnerable widow neighbor.
As he approached, he recognized the light from the little salt lamp she always left on. He appreciated it for his own voyeuristic purposes but he didn’t like it for the same reason. If he could see in, so could anyone else who might make it their business to look in on her. So far, he hadn’t run into such a person.
Lucky for that person.
The man at the bar came to mind, asking her if she was alone out here. And congratulating her on a baby. The fuck was that about? It’s not like anyone would confuse Day with another woman, but the man had to be mistaken. Of course, when he’d mentioned he knew she was out here on her own…
Good reason to keep up his nocturnal patrols. Creeps like that asking questions they shouldn’t.
As usual, her windows were open. He frowned: so easily bypassed. But it was spring, and the evenings were cool. He couldn’t bubble wrap her and throw her in a closet.
Movement in the shadows made him pause, bringing his senses to high alert. He focused on the distorted figure gliding across the front panes—whirling? Then the music hit his ears—faint, light, drifting down across the lawn toward him.
She was dancing.
His eyes adjusting to the scene as he moved closer, he realized the distortion was from a shirt she held out, manipulating the empty arms to mimic a partner. He moved closer, camouflaged by the night, knowing he wouldn’t be seen even if she bothered to look.
The song, he didn’t recognize. Not important. He leaned against the outermost post and watched. The finer details of her expression were lost to him. The way her body moved; the attempt to infuse intimacy into movements with a shirt—to draw comfort—he didn’t need to see the longing on her face to know it was there.
On a spin, she stumbled out of sight, and he straightened against the post. But her laugh filtered out to him. “Fred.” Seconds later, she reappeared, shirt tossed over her shoulders like a hug, and Fred on his hind legs, snout in her face. She was dancing with her dog and talking to him.
Didn’t know why he found that so fucking adorable, but he did.
He was spying on a woman trying to communicate with a man who no longer spoke back—taking comfort in watching her. Which of them was more fucked up?
He wasn’t supposed to have seen this, to know this about her. He didn’twantto know this about her. Didn’t want to look at her and think of sunlight fighting its way through the fog; wanting her to break through.
No, he didn’t need any of that shit.
He stepped back, leaving the three of them. Because—yeah—there were three of them in that room.
Chapter twenty-three
Cassidy
MACARONI AND CHEESE
Cassidyhadn’tbeenableto get out of bed—off the sofa—rather. She could recognize her depressed state for what it was, but that didn’t mean she could avoid the dive. She’d texted Darlene; apologized. It was more than she’d ever done before but wrapped up in her self-loathing, she didn’t recognize that she’d managed something responsible.
Thankfully, it hadn’t lasted four days, only a day. It’d still been too long.
She was well aware the second anniversary was approaching. She’d been hospitalized on the first anniversary. She was terrified of going back to that person. At the same time, she was wracked with guilt because she didn’twantto grieve so deeply anymore.
Jason had suggested walking or jogging, an exercise of some sort in one of his texts. He said it could stave off depression. So, she and Fred tried it: jogging. Elijah had jogged. At first, it was around her property to see if she even wanted to do it. Then she went out on the driveway and road. Then she decided she was an expert.
Which was how she ended up on the side of the road burning up with a splitting headache, exhausted, two miles from home, and wishing she was dead. Fred panted next to her, staring at her beet-red face as she squatted on the side of the road. Balancing on the balls of her feet, she grasped her head in her hands.
Fred whimpered and licked her face.
Cassidy raised her head, informing him gravely, “Jason has killed me. You’re going to be an orphan.” She needed to call someone. Shewantedto call Jason and point out he had killed her, but it wouldn’t help.
Marge. She could call Marge. The poor woman was always coming to her rescue.
She reached for her phone, siliconed to her ass in the tight pants, trying not to give up and fall flat on her face on the pavement. As she struggled with wrestling it from the secure pocket, she heard a vehicle on the road. She glanced up, her erratic heartbeat spurred on by the thought she could be rescued and returned to her house.