“I’ve got an early morning,” he says, eyes crinkling as if he’s apologizing. And it’s true. Wednesdays he goes in at 6:00 AM, which means he has to be pulling out of here by 5:30 sharp. “Another time?”
I lean forward, retrieving the cup and saucer. “Of course.”
“Good night,” he says, lingering for a second. It’s dark in here, and the flicker of the TV paints shadows on his face, but I swear there’s an air of sadness in his eyes.
Or worse—pity.
He feels sorry for me.
Niall turns to leave, and it occurs to me that perhaps we aren’t friends at all. Perhaps he simply feels sorry for me because he’s realized over the last several months that he’s all I have.
He wouldn’t be wrong.
CHAPTER 3
I venture out to the front porch again Wednesday morning, opting to enjoy my coffee from the wooden swing, watching the world wake once more. Earlier this morning, I placed a call to that HPG place that mailed me that key before brewing a fresh pot of blond roast, checking the weather, and grabbing a knit cardigan from my closet.
Robins chirp from the branches of the oaks that surround the property, and a group of schoolchildren blazes down the sidewalk on their bikes—one of them straggling behind and yelling for the rest of the gang to wait up.
School lets out in a few more weeks, and the neighborhood will be more active during the day—safer. It’s good to have people around. Witnesses. Because you never know. Even if they’re children, they have eyes, and eyes are deterrents to those who don’t want to be seen.
I think about the person who attacked me—obviously they made off with my wallet so they know where I live. If it wasn’t random, if they ever wanted to come back and finish the job, they’d know exactly where to go. But the police insist it was random, that it was a crime of convenience. It was a November Tuesday night, and I was working late in my insurance office on the square, fluorescent lights aglow over my desk. Someone saw that I was alone, watched me lock up the front door as I left, then pulled me into a dark alley. And the rest is history.
I hope to God that it was random, that it was just some lowly opportunist who happened past. I can’t think of a single enemy I had before. Then again, the year leading up to the attack is fuzzy at best, thanks in part to my traumatic brain injury.
The faint mew of the neighborhood stray pulls my attention toward the front steps, and up climbs the tortoiseshell feline I’ve secretly named Beatrice after a stuffed cat I had when I was a little girl.
Beatrice sashays toward me with her crooked tail, mewing and gazing up at me with her sunny yellow eyes, and then she hops up on the swing beside me, rubbing her cheek against my arm.
We’ve met all of a handful of times, and she acts like we’re best friends, which I’m positive has everything to do with the tuna and milk I gave her that one time.
“I can’t. I’m sorry,” I say, as if she could possibly understand me.
She’s not skin and bones, and her coat isn’t mangy. I call her a stray, but I’m pretty sure she’s just someone’s free-roaming cat.
Even if she needed a home, I couldn’t take her in. Niall mentioned once that he’s deathly allergic to pretty much anything with four legs and a tail—which was secretly disappointing because I’d been thinking of getting a guard dog, a Tibetan mastiff or a Thai ridgeback. Something soft, nice to look at, and fiercely loyal.
Beatrice’s mews become incessant.
It breaks my heart. It does. But I pet her, hoping a few scratches behind the ear will make up for my coldheartedness.
She moves on a few minutes later, chasing something in the distance and disappearing between two of Enid Davies’s peony bushes.
I take a sip of my coffee and peer over the front porch, past the picket fence, where a couple of ladies are walking two dogs—a Yorkie and a miniature schnauzer.
I recognize them. I think they’re from the next block over. They always amble down the Avenue of the Queens, always stop to gawk in front of my house.
But today their eyes are averted.
Apparently they only gawk if they think they aren’t being seen, which leads me to believe they feel guilty for looking, for staring. Makes me wonder if all those times they weren’t discussing the outside of the house as much as they were what’s inside of it.
They feel sorry for me.
I’d tell them to join the club if they’d dare to so much as acknowledge me.
The shrill of my cell phone’s ringer pulls me from my haze of thoughts, and I rise from the swing and head inside, locking the door behind me and grabbing my phone off the sideboard in the foyer.
I don’t recognize the number on the screen.
“Hello?” I answer.
“Hi. Brienne?” a woman asks.
“Yes?”
“This is Harriett at Harcourt Property Group, returning your call.”
“Yes,” I say. “I received a key in the mail yesterday. I was just wondering . . . why?”
Harriett chuckles, deep and raspy, the way a smoker might. “You’re pulling my leg.”
My silence should be all the answer she needs.
“You were just here,” she continues. “About two weeks ago?”
Frozen, I say nothing.
“Paid six months on a one-bedroom unit,” she adds, still chuckling. “Don’t tell me you forgot.”
I couldn’t formulate a response if I tried.
“The key is just something nice we like to do for our residents,” she says. “Anyway, your unit will be ready tomorrow, just like you asked.”
How many Brienne Dougrays could there be? And two in one town?
Impossible.
“Hello?” she asks, singsong. “You still there, Ms. Dougray?”
There’s a very real chance someone sold my identity on the black market or dark web after my attack—and if the woman pretending to be me purchased it, there’s a chance she holds the key to answering that million-dollar question that plagues my existence and haunts my nightmares.
“Yes. Sorry for the confusion. Thank you for your time.” I hang up, a cold sweat having collected across my brow and a heaviness residing in my middle.
This is big.
In six months, we haven’t had an actual lead.
If I’m going to catch this thief, I can’t have her spooked. She can’t know that I’m onto her, or she’ll run.
My heartbeat pulses in my ears, and the space around me grows ten degrees hotter. The intensity of this revelation stirs the deepest parts of me, and I find myself pacing the hallway. Quick, light steps back and forth, my breath shallow in my chest.
The overwhelming weight of powerlessness blankets me from head to toe, and I rake my fingers through my hair before massaging away the throb at my temples. Without thinking, I make my rounds through the main level of the house, checking doors and locks and windows as though my mind needs to ensure there’s an extra layer of protection between myself and the outside world.
My breathing steadies after a bit, and I finally stop pacing.
I could easily stay here the rest of the day, angrily wallowing in the fact that I’m being victimized all over again, that someone out there has no qualms about stealing my identity after everything I’ve been through. I could easily work myself into another headache spell that knocks me off my feet for the next two days.