Next Door

“I don’t know,” she said, raising her voice. “We haven’t been going out all that long. God, there’s no need to get so fucking defensive.”

He rolled his eyes at her and looked at the TV. It was a dismissive gesture, one that pissed her off. She shook her head and, doing her best to keep her playful façade front and center, she quickly straddled him. She reached down as if going for his zipper but then angled for the pocket he had put the phone in. With her other hand, she started to tickle his right side.

He was taken aback, clearly unsure how to respond. Yet the moment her fingers found the edge of his phone, he seemed to flip a switch somewhere. He grabbed her arm and pulled it up in a vise-like grip. He then shoved her down on the couch, not yet letting go of her arm. It hurt like hell but she was not about to let him hear her scream out in pain. The speed and strength he showed reminded her that he had once trained to be an amateur boxer.

“Whoa, let go of my fucking arm!”

He did, looking down at her in surprise. The look on his face made her think he had not intended to get that rough with her. He had surprised even himself. But he was also angry; the furrowed brow and trembling shoulders were evidence of that.

“I’m going to go,” he said.

“Yeah, good idea,” Danielle said. “And don’t even bother calling again unless it’s going to start with an apology.”

He shook his head—whether at himself and his actions or at her, Danielle wasn’t sure. She watched him quickly walk for the door, closing it firmly behind him. Danielle sat on the couch, looking toward the door for several moments as she tried to figure out what exactly had happened.

No interest in screwing me and a surprise temper on him, she thought. That dude might be more trouble than he’s worth.

Of course, she’d always been drawn to that kind of man.

She looked at her arm and saw red splotches where he had grabbed her and shoved her down. She was pretty sure they’d bruise. It wouldn’t be the first time a guy had put bruises on her but she had really not seen it coming from Martin.

She toyed with the idea of chasing after him to see what had gotten into him. But instead, she stayed on the couch and watched the movie. If her past had taught her anything, it was that men simply weren’t worth chasing after. Not even the ones who seemed too good to be true.

She finished the movie by herself and called it a night. As she shut off all the light, she felt like she was being watched—like she was not alone. She knew this was ridiculous, of course, but still could not help but look back to her front door, where the letter had appeared yesterday—and several times before—as if out of nowhere.

She remained on the couch and watched the door, almost expecting another letter to slide through the bottom. And twenty minutes later, when she got up and started getting ready for work, she did so with every light in the apartment on.

Slowly, a creeping paranoia churned within her. It was a familiar one, a feeling that had become something like a close friend over the years—a very close friend ever since those letters started arriving.

She thought of the pills and wondered for a moment if this were all in her head. Everything. Including the letters.

Was any of this real?

She couldn’t help reaching back into her past, reminding herself of the darkness she thought she had escaped.

Was she losing her mind again?

Chapter Six

Chloe sat in the waiting room, looking at the sparse reading selection on the coffee table. She had visited two different therapists following her mother’s death but had not really understood the purpose of those visits. Now, though, at the age of twenty-seven, she knew why she was here. She had taken Greene’s advice and called the on-hand bureau therapist to talk out her reaction to yesterday’s crime scene. Now she found herself trying to recall the offices she had visited as child.

“Ms. Fine?” a woman called from the other side of the room.

Chloe had been so deep in her own thoughts that she hadn’t heard the door to the waiting room open. A pleasant-looking woman waved her back. Chloe got to her feet and tried her best not to feel like a failure as she followed the woman down a hallway and toward a large office space.

She thought back to what Greene had told her yesterday as they had shared coffee. It was still bright and shining in her mind because it had been the first bit of real advice a seasoned agent had ever given her during her very young career.

“I saw this therapist several times my first year. My fourth crime scene was a murder-suicide. Four bodies in all. One was a three-year-old kid. Rattled the hell out of me. So I can tell you without hesitation…therapy works. Especially if you start it at this stage of your career. I’ve seen agents think they’re hot shit and don’t need the help. Don’t be one of those, Fine.”

So no…needing a therapist did not make her a failure. If anything, she hoped it might make her stronger.

She entered the office and saw an older gentleman of about sixty or so sitting behind a large desk. A window behind the desk revealed a small topiary outside, butterflies darting to and fro. His name was Donald Skinner, and he had been doing this for more than thirty years. She knew this because she had Googled him before deciding to make the appointment. Skinner was very prim and proper; he seemed to expand slightly, filling the room a bit more as he walked over to greet her.

He gestured toward a comfortable-looking armchair in the center of the room. “Please,” he said. “Make yourself comfortable.”

She sat down, clearly nervous. She knew she was probably trying a bit too hard to try to hide it.

“Ever done this before?” Skinner asked.

“When I was much younger,” she said.

He nodded as he took a seat in an identical chair positioned in front of hers. When he sat, he hefted his right knee up on his right leg and folded his hands atop them.

“Ms. Fine, why don’t you tell me about yourself…ending with why you are here today.”

“How far back?” she asked, meaning it as a joke.

“For now, let’s just focus on the crime scene yesterday,” Skinner answered.

Chloe took a moment to think and then started. She held nothing back, even delving back into her past a bit to paint that picture for him as well. Skinner listened intently and now mulled over everything he had just been told.

“Tell me,” Skinner said. “So far, out of the crime scenes you’ve visited, was this the grisliest?”

“No. But it was the grisliest thing I’d been allowed to actually see.”

“So you are willing to fully admit that it was this event from your past that caused you to react the way you did?”

“I suppose. I mean, it’s never happened before. And even when it sort if tries to bother me, I can stomp it out pretty easily.”

“I see. Now, are there any other factors that might have come into play? It’s a new city. A new instructor, a new house. There’s a lot of change.”

“My twin sister,” Chloe said. “She lives here in Pinecrest. I figured maybe the idea of seeing her again after a year or so…maybe that did it in addition to the scene being so similar.”

“That could very well be the case,” Skinner asked. “Please forgive me asking such a simple question, but did the murder of your mother lead you to a career with the FBI?”

“Yes. I knew by the time I was twelve, this is what I wanted to do.”

“And what about your sister? What does she do?”

“She’s a bartender. I think she enjoys it because she only has to be social for a few hours of the day and then she can go home and sleep until noon.”

“And does she remember that day the same way you do? Have you spoken about it?”

“We have, but she won’t go into great detail. When I try, she shuts me down pretty much right away.”

“So go into those details with me right now,” Skinner said. “It’s clear you need to discuss it somehow. So why not with me…an impartial party?”

“Well, like I said earlier, it seemed like a pretty basic yet unfortunate accident.”