Girl Next Door Page 2

  “‘HEEELP!’

  “More punches fell, and soon I tasted blood in my mouth and my vision became blurred. I felt dizzy and could barely stay conscious. The blows stopped, and I felt myself being dragged up the stairs, the back of my head bumping onto each step, causing the pain in my back to flare up, but having no strength to scream or even moan anymore. The bumping continued till it suddenly stopped and everything went quiet for a little while. The next thing I heard was the sound of something coming closer and, as I opened my eyes again and watched through patches of blood, I realized I was now looking out through a plastic bag.

  “Oh, dear God, no!

  “I tried to move, to fight the man off as he closed the bag using a cord around my throat. The bag moved back and forth against my skin as I fought to breathe. The inside of it soon turned foggy while I felt the perpetrator fumbling behind me, trying to tie up my arms. It was through that fog that I spotted another set of eyes staring back at me. The very familiar brown eyes of my dog.

  “Dylan!

  “I had no air to scream at the dog, and there was no need for it. The black Doberman exposed his teeth, let out a loud snarl, then went directly for the perpetrator's thigh. I could hear as the teeth went through the jeans and sunk into the skin and I could have sworn I even heard the bone crushing as the dog bit down. The perpetrator let out a loud roar and turned to hit the dog, but Dylan didn't move an inch. While I reached up my hands to pull off the plastic bag and dash for the stairs, Dylan held onto the thigh with all the strength he had in him, and as I raced for the door, reaching out for the door handle, I knew I would be forever indebted to the darn dog.

  “Behind me, I heard the dog whimper loudly, and then followed the sound of fast moving steps on the stairs. Realizing the perpetrator had somehow fought off Dylan, I was spurred into motion. I sprang into the driveway, gravel skidding beneath my feet. Screaming for help, I ran into the street, tripped on a lawn sprinkler and landed in the grass, face first, having the air knocked out of me. Behind me, the door was yanked open. I scrambled to my feet and turned my head with a gasp. My eyes searched frantically behind me and met the steel grey ones behind the mask before I ran into the street, screaming for help. The sound of feet behind me on the asphalt made me run even faster down the street till I reached the river and plunged into the brown water. Luckily, I am an excellent swimmer, and I stayed under the murky water for as long as I could without breathing, then swam for the dock at the Williams’ house. I swam underneath it, grabbed onto the wood, and stayed like that for hours, continually staring at the water behind me, wondering if the perpetrator had taken up the chase and plunged into the water as well. I was just waiting for that doll mask to appear out of the murky water.

  “It was dark before I dared to climb up onto the dock and run into the Williams’ backyard and knock on their sliding doors. The rest of the story, you know."

  Steve stopped talking and exhaled deeply, feeling how his mouth had grown dry. He wiped a couple of tears from his cheeks and held onto the table to stop his hands from shaking.

  The man in front of Steve nodded. He wrote a few words on his pad, then looked up at him. Steve took a sip of water and swallowed. The man took off his glasses and put them on the table in front of him. He grabbed the recorder on the table and turned it off.

  "Thank you, Steve. I think I have what I need."

  Steve sighed. Telling his story always drained him. It didn't matter if it was the police, a psychologist, or journalists who asked him to. It was so painful to go back there again and again.

  "So, when will it be in the paper?" he asked.

  "Tomorrow. It's our front-cover story."

  Steve nodded, tired. He was about to start crying again but held it back. He was getting quite good at that. He couldn't allow himself to get carried away. Crying wouldn't get him anywhere.

  "Good," he said with a sniffle. "I just want the world to know what this bastard has done and warn anyone else to be careful."

  "I know you do. And we appreciate it greatly. You are very brave to come forward like this and I know it hurts terribly to tell your story, but you did a great job."

  Steve exhaled. "Maybe this way the bastard will get caught and people can get back to sleeping peacefully again. That's all I can pray for. I just want justice for my family. I want this monster to get caught."

  The journalist rose to his feet and gathered his things. He reached out his hand and shook Steve's.

  "That's what I pray for too."

  Part I

  1

  August 2018

  It was a busy street, yet no one saw the young boy as he leaped into it. Maybe it was because they didn't expect a young boy to run into A1A like that during rush-hour, without looking for cars. Or perhaps they were just too busy to notice, going to their jobs or other destinations only the drivers themselves knew.

  A woman did see him, though. Old Mrs. McMullen was standing on the other side of the four-lane road, where the car rushed past at forty-five miles an hour, while most of them were going fifty-five. She was out walking her dog, her four-month-old Standard Schnauzer, Fluffy, that her son-in-law had gotten for her, picked up at some breeder half an hour from where she lived in her beachside community. Fluffy didn't see anything and, at first, old Mrs. McMullen believed she had to be mistaken, that she was imagining things, maybe seeing things that weren't even there. It wasn't the first time, you know. She was suffering from worsening Alzheimer's that made her forget and sometimes even see things that weren't really there. At least, that's what her children told her.

  Mrs. McMullen blinked a few times, but the boy was still there in the middle of the road, zigzagging between the cars, not looking where he was going.

  Old Mrs. McMullen shouted. A loud piercing cry, but it was completely drowned out by the roars coming from the cars.

  The boy ran between the cars like he was confused where to go, but also like he didn't even realize where he was, and they missed him by a hair, much to the old woman's relief.

  But then he stopped.

  The boy stood in the middle of the road and, right before the car hit him, he turned his face toward Mrs. McMullen like had he finally heard her screams, and their eyes met.

  It was a moment she was certain not even the Alzheimer's would be able to erase from her mind.

  2

  August 2018

  The Weasel walked through the police tape when Sergeant Mike Wagner approached her. The house in front of her was a typical old Cocoa Beach beach-house. Three bedrooms, two and a half baths. Small kitchen, small backyard with a shed—probably used for surfboards—and a hammock between the palm trees.

  "So, what are we looking at?" she asked. They had briefed her on the phone, but she needed to hear it one more time. With more details.

  "Double homicide. A woman in her mid-thirties and her daughter, eleven years old."

  "And they're related to the boy?" she asked and walked to the front door, putting on gloves that Mike handed her. The forensics team hadn't arrived yet, and she had to be very careful not to contaminate the scene.

  "Yes. They’re his mom and sister," Mike said.

  Weasel walked into the living room where the body of the mother lay on the floor. Her eyes were wide open on the severed head that lay inches from the body. Her hands and feet were tied with cords. The Weasel drew in a deep breath, then nodded.

  They had received the call this morning about a fifteen-year-old boy, Parker Reynolds, who had run into A1A in the middle of rush hour traffic and then gotten himself hit by a car. He was then slung through the air and hit by another car before they finally managed to stop. The scene had been a mess, but the boy was still alive. Barely, though. He was now in the hospital in Cape Canaveral, where they were fighting for his life. As soon as they had identified the boy, her officers had set out to notify the family, but as they arrived, they had found the mother and sister dead.

  "And the husband?"

  "Not in the picture as far as we know," Mike said. "They're separated. He lives down in Palm Bay. He's been notified and is on his way here."

  "That should give us a quick ID, then. Where's the girl?"

  "The bedroom. In the back."

  Weasel nodded and walked down the hallway. Pictures of the girl and her brother hung on the wall from when they were just young children. Next to the bathroom were pencil marks on the wall with their different heights next to dates and years.

  Not gonna be any more of those, Weasel thought to herself morbidly.

  "In here?" she asked and pointed at the door with the many KEEP OUT and KNOCK FIRST signs. Mike nodded.

  Weasel stepped inside, then gasped. Tears appeared in her eyes, but she didn't give into them. Her heart pounded in her chest as she stared at the lifeless girl dangling from the ceiling above her bed, her face barely visible behind the plastic bag. On the floor stood a backpack next to her lunch bag. She had been getting ready to go to school. Mike came up behind her.

  "He used her own belt to hang her with."

  Weasel swallowed the lump in her throat. "I see."

  Mike stood next to her, and she fought to hold back tears. As the head of the police department, she couldn't show emotions in a situation like this.

  "So, what do we do next?" Mike asked.

  "I guess we call in Ryder," she said. "He'll know how to handle this. If anyone can, it's him."

  3

  August 2018

  "Here you go. The house is all yours."

  Mary Hass, the realtor who had been helping Diane find a new place to live, dangled the keys in front of Diane's face. Diane grabbed them with a happy chuckle. They were standing on the porch of the small bungalow style white painted beach house in North Cocoa Beach.

 
Diane lifted her head but remained silent.

  "What?" Mary said. "You're not going inside?"

  "I’m just listening," Diane said. "I can hear the ocean."

  "It is literally just one block away," Mary said. "Imagine going down there every morning for a quick swim or after work when you're all sweaty and gross. Nothing beats the ocean."

  Diane took in a deep breath and smelled the fresh air being brought to her porch by the breeze coming from the ocean. It smelled divine.

  "Thank you," she said. "Without you, I would never have found this little pearl of a house."

  "You were lucky," Mary said and looked at her phone. "No one gets a house for that price around here. A condo maybe. But not a three-bedroom three bath, no way."

  "Guess luck is finally smiling on me," Diane mumbled.

  Mary was still looking at her phone, her finger sliding across the screen. "Yes, well. Congratulations. Enjoy your new house." She lifted her phone up, then took a selfie with Diane. "For the Facebook page," she said and tapped on the screen afterward. "We like to do a little post every time we make a deal. You know, to show business is booming and all that."

  "Of course," Diane said and looked at the keys in her hand.

  "Anywh-o-o, enjoy your new home and let me know if you're ever in the market for an upgrade."

  "Thank you."

  Diane waved at Mary as she rushed to her car, her nose once again stuck in the phone, even as she put the key in the ignition and rushed off down the street.

  When she was finally gone, Diane took in another deep breath of the fresh air, then put the key in the door and opened it. The musty smell that met her was no surprise, since she had been to the house several times before and knew it had been empty for many years. This was what you'd call a fixer-upper, or what people like Mary would call a home of great potential, with lots of curb appeal, but that didn't frighten Diane one bit. Even if she never got it fixed up properly, she knew she could make a good home for herself and Misty, her cat. She didn't need granite countertops to be happy. She didn't need IKEA furniture or a flat screen TV. She was happy to simply have a roof over her head, one that was safe.

  Diane walked to her small Toyota and grabbed Misty in her arms. The cat complained slightly. Diane brought him inside and put him down on the old wooden floors. The cat immediately took off, sniffing his way around the kitchen.

  "There you go, buddy. Get comfortable. I know I will. This is our new home. This is where we start over again, just the two of us."

  4

  August 2018

  "Registration day is tomorrow?"

  I looked at my twins, Abigail and Austin with wide eyes. Tyler—my very energetic two-year-old was sitting in my lap, playing with my phone, giving me a much-deserved break.

  Abigail rolled her eyes. "We told you this yesterday. You're the one who's supposed to keep track of these things, not us."

  I sighed, exhausted. I had been alone with the kids all summer while my wife, Shannon King, the world-famous country singer, was on tour. It was sort of her comeback tour, one of those you can't miss even if you have six kids in the house. Granted, only two of them were hers, but still. She had left me alone in a madhouse and wasn't coming back for six more weeks.

  I wasn't sure I was going to make it.

  "All right then. So, we go get you kiddos registered tomorrow and meet your teachers."

  I smiled, not at them, but because this meant they would go back to school in just a few days. With Tyler in pre-school, that meant things could finally get back to normal. I wouldn't have to depend so much on my parents helping me out whenever I needed to work. I would occasionally leave them alone with Emily in charge, but I wasn't too fond of doing that. She was nineteen now but had been through a couple of rough years. I didn't want to impose too much responsibility on her shoulders. Handling three nine-year-olds, one twelve-year-old, and also a two-year-old was too much for her. I was so grateful that I had my parents living close by.

  While Tyler played with the phone between his chubby hands, it started to ring. A picture of Shannon showed up, and Tyler shrieked with joy.

  "Mommy!"

  "Here, let me get that," I said and took the phone out of his hands, then picked it up.

  "Hi, honey?" she chirped. "How are things back at the house?"

  I looked around our newly-built beach house. It looked like a disaster. Toys were spread everywhere on the wooden floors. Someone had painted on the white walls next to the fridge with permanent marker. The girls had been making slime in the living room and left stains all over the couches and on the carpet.

  "Mommy, Mommy, Mommy," Tyler whined and tried to grab the phone from my hand.

  "Is that Tyler?" Shannon said. "Put him on."

  I gave the boy the phone, and he shrieked with joy as he placed it against his ear. "Mommy?"

  They spoke for a few minutes. It was mostly Shannon who did the talking, while Tyler just made babbling noises. After a few minutes, he lost interest and put the phone down on the counter while I could still hear Shannon talking to him.

  "How about that, buddy, huh?"

  "It's me again. I’m back. Tyler had somewhere to be," I said and watched as the young boy climbed down and staggered toward the living room, holding a wooden spoon in his hand that he without a doubt would use to hit one of his siblings with within the next few minutes and then they would come crying to me. At least I had a few minutes before it broke loose. A few minutes were all I needed to talk to my beloved wife.

  "How are things, for real?" she asked.

  "Tumultuous, would that be a word?" I asked.

  "I am sorry," she said. "I feel bad."

  "Don't. That won't help me one bit. Enjoy it, and I'll feel like it was all worth it."

  I sighed and found my cup of coffee from this morning. I sipped it. It was cold, but I didn't care. Anything would do at this point.

  "Don't forget registration day tomorrow," she said after a small pause.

  "I'm on top of it," I said. "Everything is under control."

  "Phew," she said. "So, I don't have to ask if you bought back-to-school supplies and clothes either?"

  My eyes grew wide, and I almost spit out the cold coffee. I coughed instead. "Supplies? Clothes?"

  "Oh, no, please tell me you’ve bought them?" she asked.

  "No…no, of course, I have. As I said, I'm on top of it all. You don't have to worry about a thing."

  I tried to sound reassuring. It worked.

  "Of course, I don't. I am sorry I doubted you for a second. Of course, you have it all under control. You're Jack Ryder, the perfect husband and father."

  "Don't forget detective," I said.

  "Of course not. Detective too. How's the new job?"

  I looked out the window at the ocean in front of me. This house had the most gorgeous views of the Atlantic Ocean, and I kept forgetting to enjoy it because of all the busyness around me. One day I'd get to surf again, I thought. One day.

  I had taken a transfer from the Brevard County Sherriff's office to the Cocoa Beach Police department. I needed a change of scenery and was sick of the commute. Cocoa Beach Police department was like coming home for me, and the position was brand new, so I wouldn't have to follow in anyone's footsteps. According to the Weasel, who was the chief of police there, I could take care of my own hours and even work from home from time to time if that was needed, which it most certainly was. It was a slight step down career-wise, since the area we covered was smaller and the cases a lot less attractive, coming from covering the entire county to only a small town with barely ten thousand inhabitants, but it was what I needed right now. I needed to slow down a little in order not to lose myself completely between my family and my work schedule.

  "It's okay. Got a new case yesterday though. Ugly one. A mom and her daughter murdered in their own home right before they left for school and work. The son got out and got away but was struck by a car on A1A. Yesterday was busy, but my parents have been great at helping out. I’ve told Weasel I might do a lot of work from home, if possible, and she doesn’t seem to mind. She knows I have a lot on my plate."