Chapter One

I’ve always wondered what people felt in the final few
hours of their lives. Did they know something terrible was about to
occur? Sense imminent tragedy, hold their loved ones close? Or is
it one of those things that simply happens? The mother of four,
tucking her kids into bed, worrying about the morning car pool, the
laundry she still hasn’t done, and the funny noise the
furnace is making again, only to catch an eerie creak coming from
down the hall. Or the teenage girl, dreaming about her Saturday
shopping date with her BFF, only to open her eyes and discover
she’s no longer alone in her room. Or the father, bolting
awake, thinking, What the fuck? right before the hammer catches him
between the eyes.

In the last six hours of the world as I know it, I feed Ree
dinner. Kraft Macaroni & Cheese, topped with pieces of turkey
dog. I slice up an apple. She eats the crisp white flesh, leaving
behind curving half-smiles of red peel. I tell her the skin holds
all the nutrients. She rolls her eyes --- four going on fourteen.
We already fight over clothing --- she likes short skirts, her
father and I prefer long dresses, she wants a bikini, we insist she
wear a one-piece. I figure it’s only a matter of weeks before
she demands the keys to the car.

Afterward Ree wants to go “treasure hunting” in the
attic. I tell her it’s bath time. Shower, actually. We share
the old claw-foot tub in the upstairs bath, as we’ve been
doing since she was a baby. Ree lathers up two Barbies and one
princess rubber duckie. I lather up her. By the time we’re
done, we both smell like lavender and the entire black-and-white
checkered bathroom is smothered with steam.

I like the post-shower ritual. We wrap up in giant towels, then
make a beeline down the chilly hallway to the Big Bed in
Jason’s and my room, where we lie down, side by side, arms
cocooned, but toes sticking out, lightly touching. Our orange tabby
cat, Mr. Smith, jumps on the bed, and peers down at us with his big
golden eyes, long tail twitching.

“What was your favorite part of today?” I ask my
daughter.

Ree crinkles her nose. “I don’t remember.”

Mr. Smith moves away from us, finding a nice comfy spot by the
headboard, and begins to groom. He knows what’s coming
next.

“My favorite part was coming home from school and getting
a big hug.” I’m a teacher. It’s Wednesday.
Wednesday I get home around four, Jason departs at five. Ree is
used to the drill by now. Daddy is daytime, Mommy is nighttime. We
didn’t want strangers raising our child and we’ve
gotten our wish.

“Can I watch a movie?” Ree asks. Is always asking.
She’d live with the DVD player if we let her.

“No movie,” I answer lightly. “Tell me about
school.”

“A short movie,” she counters. Then offers,
triumphantly, “Veggie Tales!”

“No movie,” I repeat, untucking an arm long enough
to tickle her under the chin. It’s nearly eight o’clock
and I know she’s tired and willful. I’d like to avoid a
full tantrum this close to bedtime. “Now tell me about
school. What’d you have for snack?”

She frees her own arms and tickles me under my chin.
“Carrots!”

“Oh yeah?” More tickling, behind her ear. “Who
brought them?”

“Heidi!”

She’s trying for my armpits. I deftly block the move.
“Art or music?”

“Music!”

“Singing or instrument?”

“Guitar!”

She’s got the towel off and pounces on me, tickling
anyplace she can find with fast, poky fingers, a last burst of
energy before the end-of-the-day collapse. I manage to fend her
off, rolling laughing off the edge of the bed. I land with a thump
on the hardwood floor, which makes her giggle harder and Mr. Smith
yowl in protest. He scampers out of the room, impatient now for the
completion of our evening ritual.

I find a long T-shirt for me, and an Ariel nightgown for her. We
brush our teeth together, side by side in front of the oval mirror.
Ree likes the synchronized spit. Two stories, one song, and half a
Broadway show later, I finally have her tucked into bed with
Lil’ Bunny clutched in her hands and Mr. Smith curled up next
to her feet.

Eight-thirty. Our little house is officially my own. I take up
roost at the kitchen counter. Sip tea, grade papers, keep my back
to the computer so I won’t be tempted. The cat clock Jason
got Ree one Christmas meows on the hour. The sound echoes through
the two-story 1950s bungalow, making the space feel emptier than it
really is.

My feet are cold. It’s March in New England, the days
still chilly. I should put on socks but I don’t feel like
getting up.

Nine-fifteen, I make my rounds. Bolt lock on the back door,
check the wooden posts jammed into each window frame. Finally, the
double bolt on the steel front door. We live in South Boston, in a
modest, middle-class neighborhood with tree-lined streets and
family-friendly parks. Lots of kids, lots of white picket
fences.

I check the locks and reinforce the windows anyway. Both Jason
and I have our reasons.

Then I’m standing at the computer again, hands itching by
my side. Telling myself it’s time to go to bed. Warning
myself not to take a seat. Thinking I’m probably going to do
it anyway. Just for a minute. Check a few e-mails. What can it
hurt?

At the last moment, I find willpower I didn’t know I
possessed. I turn off the computer instead. Another family policy:
The computer must be turned off before going to bed.

A computer is a portal, you know, an entry point into your home.
Or maybe you don’t know.

Soon enough, you’ll understand.

Ten o’clock, I leave the kitchen light on for Jason. He
hasn’t called, so apparently it’s a busy night.
That’s okay, I tell myself. Busy is busy. It seems we go
longer in silence all the time. These things happen. Especially
when you have a small child.

I think of February vacation again. The family getaway that was
either the best or the worst thing that happened to us, given your
point of view. I want to understand it. Make some sense of my
husband, of myself. There are things that once done can’t be
undone, things that once said can’t be unsaid.

I can’t fix any of it tonight. In fact, I haven’t
been able to fix any of it for weeks, which has been starting to
fill me with more and more dread. Once, I honestly believed love
alone could heal all wounds. Now I know better.

At the top of the stairs, I pause outside Ree’s door for
my final good-night check. I carefully crack open the door and peer
in. Mr. Smith’s golden eyes gaze back at me. He doesn’t
get up, and I can’t blame him: It’s a cozy scene, Ree
curled in a ball under the pink-and-green flowered covers, sucking
her thumb, a tousle of dark curls peeking up from above the sheets.
She looks small again, like the baby I swear I had only yesterday,
yet somehow it’s four years later and she dresses herself and
feeds herself and keeps us informed of all the opinions she has on
life.

I think I love her.

I think love is not an adequate word to express the emotion I
feel in my chest.

I close the door very quietly, and I ease into my own bedroom,
slipping beneath the blue-and-green wedding quilt.

The door is cracked for Ree. The hallway light on for Jason.

The evening ritual is complete. All is as it should be.

I lie on my side, pillow between my knees, hand splayed on my
hip. I am staring at everything and nothing at all. I am thinking
that I am tired, and that I’ve screwed up and that I wish
Jason was home and yet I am grateful that he is gone, and that
I’ve got to figure out something except I have no idea
what.

I love my child. I love my husband.

I am an idiot.

And I remember something, something I have not thought about for
months now. The fragment is not so much a memory as it is a scent:
rose petals, crushed, decaying, simmering outside my bedroom window
in the Georgia heat. While Mama’s voice floats down the
darkened hall, “I know something you don’t know. . .
.”

“Shhh, shhh, shhh,” I whisper now. My hand curves
around my stomach and I think too much of things I have spent most
of my life trying to forget.

“Shhh, shhh, shhh,” I try again.

And then, a sound from the base of the stairs . . .

In the last moments of the world as I know it, I wish I could
tell you I heard an owl hoot out in the darkness. Or saw a black
cat leap over the fence. Or felt the hairs tingle on the nape of my
neck.

I wish I could tell you I saw the danger, that I put up one
helluva fight. After all, I, of all people, should understand just
how easily love can turn to hate, desire to obsession. I, of all
people, should have seen it coming.

But I didn’t. I honestly didn’t.

And God help me, when his face materialized in the shadow of my
doorway, my first thought was that he was just as handsome now as
when we first met, and that I still wished I could trace the line
of his jaw, run my fingers through the waves of his hair. . . .

Then I thought, looking at what was down at his side, that I
mustn’t scream. I must protect my daughter, my precious
daughter still sleeping down the hall.

He stepped into the room. Raised both of his arms.

I swear to you I didn’t make a sound.

Excerpted from THE NEIGHBOR © Copyright 2011 by Lisa
Gardner. Reprinted with permission by Bantam. All rights
reserved.