The Good Neighbor Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2015 Anjali Banerjee

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503944435

  ISBN-10: 1503944433

  Cover design by Lindsey Andrews

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  I’m drowning. The river’s current is tearing me apart. I’ve kicked off my boots, but my heavy jeans cling to my legs. My chest burns with the need for air. Where is she? I’ve lost sight of her—no, there she is, too close to the falls. Her head bobs to the surface, her pale face upturned. Her lips are blue.

  I strike out after her, but the current yanks me under; I swallow mouthfuls of water. I fight my way upward, break the surface, spitting out mud and silt. The rumble of the waterfall rises to an earsplitting roar.

  “I’m coming!” I shout. “Grab on to something!” Is she conscious? Is she even alive? I scream for help, my shrill cries lost in the storm. Right arm, left, reach, pull. My fingers are numb. I can’t feel my feet. The sky flashes with lightning, then the crack of thunder, and a familiar voice calls from high on the cliff, a dark figure moving along the embankment.

  “Bon voyage,” the voice yells in triumph. “Good riddance to both of you.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  TWO MONTHS EARLIER

  That early October evening, everything on Sitka Lane was still perfect. The twilight sky blushed in iridescent shades of pink and gold. The first fallen leaves tumbled across the lawn, cedar and alder trees swaying in the ocean breeze. I still felt robust and healthy as I straightened the painting of Miracle Mouse on my studio wall. The furry detective perched on a stack of books, her bespectacled eyes bright and perceptive.

  I needed to write her next adventure, but when Johnny went away, I ended up chewing the tip of my pen and staring off into space. Every time my cell phone rang, I imagined his arms around me, his hand at the small of my back, circling lower. After three years of marriage, I still felt like a revved-up newlywed.

  I pictured him at his conference in San Francisco, captivated by the latest advances in the treatment of acne and eczema, while I puttered around in the sleepy town of Shadow Cove, Washington, decorating our dream house. Or technically, Johnny’s dream house, since he’d bought the place before I’d ever met him.

  I focused on rearranging my studio, which held the evidence of my busy life—boxes of books to donate to the library, my reading club schedule, notes from writers in my critique group.

  At six thirty, my cell phone buzzed, the letters BFF popping up on the screen. I hit the answer button. “I thought you and Dan had left for India.”

  “Our flight’s in four hours,” Natalie replied, Miles Davis playing in the background. “I had a weird feeling about you.”

  “What is it now?” Natalie was the queen of outlandish premonitions. Ten years earlier, when we’d met as undergrads, she’d predicted the apocalypse before every exam.

  “I worry one of those tall trees will fall on your roof.”

  “You get this way before you travel,” I said.

  “I know, but you’re alone in that gigantic house, and—”

  “It’s not so gigantic.” It was true, but still, I shivered. The wind picked up outside, rushing through the trees. “I still can’t believe you’ll be gone for six months.”

  “The clinic wanted Dan for a year, but his patients need him here. I’ll bring you some silk and sandalwood.”

  “And Darjeeling tea,” I said.

  “Green tea is better for your health, if you’re trying to get preggers.”

  “I prefer black tea. You know that.” I felt a twinge beneath my ribs. Johnny and I had been trying to conceive for nearly a year.

  “One cup a day,” Natalie said. “Or drink decaf.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Do you ever stop being a nutritionist?”

  “Only in my sleep. Give that hunky husband a hug for me.”

  “Likewise.” I hung up, missing Natalie already. As I finished tidying my desk, her words played through my mind. I had a weird feeling . . .

  A few minutes later, my phone rang again, the word Johnny lighting the screen in blocky white letters.

  “I missed you all day, Dr. McDonald,” I said, smiling.

  “I missed you more,” he replied in his sleepy baritone voice. “I’ve been up to my ears in hidradenitis suppurativa—”

  “Suppura-what?”

  “It’s associated with high morbidity.”

  “I hate that word, morbidity. Sounds like death.”

  “It is about death. I need to come home.”

  “You mean you’re not turned on by exciting lectures on flesh-eating bacteria?”

  “I’m turned on by you. What are you wearing?”

  “That little lace number you got me for Christmas,” I lied, looking down at my T-shirt and denim coveralls.

  “Mmm. We could, you know . . . over the phone.”

  “Wait a minute. Someone’s at the Kimballs’ house.” A car rumbled up the neighbors’ driveway, the engine kicking off.

  “They’re allowed to have guests.”

  “But the Kimballs are in Hawaii. They asked me to keep an eye on their house. Hang on.” I headed for the kitchen, pulled up the blinds. In the darkening twilight, two figures emerged from a station wagon in the neighbors’ driveway. Only a narrow strip of lawn separated their house from ours. I recognized Chad Kimball, thick and stocky, built like a football player except for his sloping shoulders. Monique resembled Marilyn Monroe in a striking way, curvy and breathless, with her shimmering blue dress flapping against her legs.

  But where was Mia? Probably asleep in her car seat. “It’s them,” I said, letting the blinds drop. “They’re back early. Maybe Mia got sick. I’ll talk to Monique in the morning.”

  Johnny yawne
d. “G’night, my sweet. I love you only.”

  “Me, too. I love you only.” I hung up and finished tidying my desktop. Miracle Mouse watched me from the wall, every brushstroke of her fur lovingly painted by my grandmother. Nana had given me the picture when my first Miracle Mouse mystery had been accepted for publication. Now Nana was gone, but her memory haunted Miracle’s discerning gaze. As usual, I touched Miracle’s nose before retiring for the night.

  On my way upstairs, I heard the melodic tones of the doorbell. I found Monique Kimball standing on the porch, the wind blowing white-blond hair across her face. At close range, her movie-star features came into focus—pouty lips, expressive gray eyes, and thick, curved lashes. Her skin was lightly tanned, a sprinkling of freckles on her cheeks. The faint smells of travel rose from her—airplane, sweat, and expensive perfume.

  “You’re back early,” I said. “Is everything okay?”

  She smiled wanly. “It’s complicated. But I didn’t come over to complain. Could I borrow a bag of charcoal?”

  “Come on back. We’ve got a bag on the deck.”

  Monique stepped inside and followed me down the hall. As we passed through the family room, she whistled in delight. “Oh la la! I love the way you’ve redecorated. Is the blue couch new?”

  “I got rid of that old black monstrosity. It screamed ‘bachelor pad.’”

  “You’ve really fixed up the place.”

  “Thanks, it’s been fun.” When I’d moved in, I’d added silk throw pillows, lavender sachets, scented soaps. I had a few nice pieces of furniture made from sustainably harvested wood, including a pearl diver chest in the hall.

  Out on the windy back deck, a lawn chair lay on its side, and a garden rake had toppled over. I picked up a small bag of charcoal and handed it to Monique. “Sure you can get a barbecue going in this weather?”

  “You know my husband. He likes a challenge.” Monique tucked the bag under her arm. Back in the foyer, she hesitated. “Jules is okay? He’s gone to bed early?” She gazed up the staircase, as if she might want to borrow Johnny as well. Occasionally, she reverted to calling him “Jules” and her husband “Jim,” after characters in Jules and Jim, a French movie the four of us had watched together, about two men in love with the same woman. But Monique and I had argued about who most resembled the femme fatale, Catherine.

  “Another conference,” I said. “How’s Jim?”

  “Tired and sunburned. His skin is too sensitive.” Monique seemed about to say something more, but instead she turned to peek out through the narrow window next to the front door. Across the street, Jessie Ramirez sat on her front steps in a sweatshirt and jeans, her dark hair whipping across her face. A tall boy sat next to her, dressed in a hoodie and smoking—her new boyfriend, Adrian, his low-rider black Buick parked in the driveway.

  Monique frowned. “Why does she hang out with him?”

  “She’s seventeen, the age of raging hormones. But she’s a good kid.”

  “She takes good care of our house when we’re away, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “I kept a gold pen by the phone, and now I can’t find it. Maybe it fell behind the fridge.”

  “You think she stole it?”

  “I’m sure it’ll turn up. Please don’t mention it to her.”

  “Don’t worry. My lips are sealed.”

  Monique left in a rush, hips swaying as she crossed the narrow strip of lawn toward her front door. Jessie and the boy watched her go. Jessie had been a model student before she’d taken up with Adrian. But even now, I couldn’t imagine the girl stealing from anyone. She’d always been helpful and honest, but who knew the deeper mind of a teenager?

  The house to the right of Jessie’s was dark. Felix and Maude Calassis had probably gone to bed early, although Felix often walked at dusk.

  Beyond the Calassis place, the porch light shone at the empty house on the corner. The Realtor, Eris Coghlan, had forgotten to switch off the light. A SOLD plaque overlaid the FOR SALE sign posted in the yard.

  To the left of Jessie’s house, beyond a dense stand of firs, the Frenkels kept an immaculate home at the end of the cul-de-sac. Lenny Frenkel stood on the front porch, cell phone plastered to his ear. He was the thinner of the Frenkel twins, a charming fast talker. Several girls had already asked him to the senior prom. Lukas, the thicker twin, resembled his father, Verne—brawny and shy.

  On a street like Sitka Lane, with only six spacious, identical houses, it was difficult—but not impossible—to keep secrets. I could watch the neighbors come and go, but nobody knew what truly went on inside each home.

  Upstairs in the master bathroom, I could smell Johnny’s pine-scented aftershave and his favorite shea butter soap. I changed from my coveralls into one of his extra-long T-shirts and opened the window before climbing into bed. The scents of night drifted in—salty sea air, astringent cedar, and the honey-scented flowers of the bugbane plant beneath the window. I tried to focus on reading Your Healthy Pregnancy, but the words blurred across the page. Didn’t prehistoric parents already know what to do without a book? Didn’t they trust their instincts? They weren’t sitting in their caves, reading how-to manuals around the fire. But then, too many newborns must’ve died back then, before the age of modern medicine.

  The murmur of voices drifted up from the Kimballs’ backyard, mingling with the smell of barbecued hot dogs. After a time, their patio doors slid open and shut, followed by a quiet interlude. Heaviness lingered in the air, like the threat of a coming storm.

  I lay back and closed my eyes, but sleep eluded me. The wind whipped through the fir branches, and beneath the wind came the deep rumble of an engine prowling up the street. The motor cut off, and silence followed. Probably teenagers making out. It was way past their bedtime, and way past mine.

  Finally, I slipped into a restless slumber, only to awaken in darkness. The gale rattled the window, and a loud sound echoed in my ears, maybe a truck backfiring. The digital clock on the nightstand read 1:17 a.m. Diffuse orange light played across the walls; the smell of smoke wafted through the air.

  I switched on the bedside lamp, and the room rushed into view: my favorite wedding photo on the bureau, sweatshirt draped across a chair, lotion bottles on the dresser. Nothing appeared amiss, but my heart thumped erratically. I got up and peered out the window. It took a moment for the scene to register in my sleepy brain. Smoke and flames billowed from the house next door, from the Kimballs’ first-floor windows. Their fire alarm kicked on—a high-pitched beeping. A child’s terrified cries pierced the night. Mia. She was trapped in her bedroom on the second floor, right above a raging fire.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I grabbed my cell phone from the nightstand, punched in 911. My fingers trembled; I thought I might faint. An operator’s nasal voice came on the line. “Shadow Cove 911, where’s your emergency?”

  “My neighbors’ house is on fire! Hurry! Their little girl—”

  “What’s your name, ma’am?”

  “Sarah Phoenix. My neighbors are the Kimballs, Chad and Monique. Their daughter, Mia. She’s only four. She’s crying in her room—”

  “What is their address, ma’am?”

  “Theirs is 595 Sitka Lane. We’re in 599, right next door. Hurry.”

  “Help is on the way.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “First responders are en route from the central station.”

  Fifteen minutes away. I hung up, dialed the Kimballs’ number, got a fast busy signal.

  I couldn’t wait around. I yanked on my sweats and sneakers, dropped my cell phone in my pocket, and ran out into the hall. Halfway down the stairs, I tripped, tumbled down the steps, and landed sprawled out in the foyer. Stupid, stupid. People tripped this way only in the movies.

  In a moment, I was back on my feet, and out of habit, I snatched my purse from the table and flung the strap over my shoulder on my way out the door.

  Towering cedars swayed against the blustery nigh
t. The fire crackled and roared like a living creature. The neighborhood glowed in an orange-tinted tableau of shadows, the air thick with the acrid stench of burning wood and plastic. The Kimballs’ alarm still shrieked, and Mia’s plaintive cries drifted through a haze of smoke. Voices yelled across the street; doors opened and slammed.

  The entire first floor of the Kimballs’ house was engulfed in flames. Jessie’s parents, Don and Pedra Ramirez, raced over in their nightclothes. Jessie followed in jeans and a hoodie. The neighborhood converged on the Kimballs’ lawn. Felix and Maude Calassis were there, and the Frenkels with their twin teenaged sons in pajamas. Don tried the Kimballs’ front door, but it was locked. Lukas Frenkel strode up the steps and kicked in the door, then stumbled backward, coughing in a cloud of smoke. Lenny turned on the garden hose and shot a jet of water toward the blaze.

  “I called 911,” Orla Frenkel yelled above the din, her angular face tight with worry. Her flimsy silk negligee fluttered in the wind.

  “Me, too,” I shouted back. “We need to get inside!”

  “We can’t go in the front,” Lukas said, still coughing.

  “But Mia!” I said. “Chad and Monique—where are they?”

  “They’re still inside!” Don yelled. He and Verne Frenkel ran around to the other side of the house. Lenny kept hosing the front, but the thin stream of water seemed only to feed the flames.

  I rushed to the back deck, yanked at the sliding glass door. Locked. I peered through narrow slats in the blinds. Flames and smoke filled the family room. Through the haze, I glimpsed the kitchen window, which appeared to be shattered, as if someone had hurled a rock through the glass.

  “Don’t go in there!” Orla said behind me, tugging my sleeve. “It’s not safe.”

  We sprinted back to the side of the house where Mia’s second-floor room faces my room. Pedra Ramirez approached in a flapping white robe and pink slippers. “Díos mio. Where are the Kimballs? Sarah! Where’s Johnny?”

  “San Francisco,” I said, breathless. How had my sweats become damp?

  Jessie had turned on our front faucet and dragged the hose across the Kimballs’ driveway, shooting a useless stream of water toward the fire.