“I wanted to check on Jess,” he says, reading my expression. “After what you said last night. You know, that she was having a hard time.”
The back of my neck prickles.
But I think he’s not entirely ignoring my request for space. It’s Jess he’s checking on, not me. “She’s okay,” I say. “I don’t think she needs anyone here right now. She needs rest.”
“I brought these for her and Sam.” He holds up a white bag. “They’re from a new bagel store in Columbia Falls. I know how much Sam loves sesame seed.”
I take the bag. “I’ll tell her they’re from you.” I usher him to his car and watch him drive away and go back in and set the bag on the counter. I then call Alderson and tell him I’m going to the neighbors for a moment and hang up before he can protest.
Then I tell Jess that I’ll be right across the street at the neighbor’s front door and to text me or yell to me immediately if she notices anything odd or she’s worried about anything at all, even Wallace.
“Wallace? Why?”
“Just because,” I say. I don’t want to worry her further, and I’m not even sure where my own trust levels hit right now. I wonder if I can leave her alone, but it’s broad daylight, and I don’t plan to go in and have coffee with them. “I need to know who’s coming and going,” I say. “No matter who it is.”
Chapter 35
As I walk across the street, I spot the camera at the corner of the house near the front porch. I’m hoping their system, if operational, stretches all the way for a full street view.
A hedge of lilac bushes on the side of the house lost its blooms months ago and is dropping pale, yellowing leaves. Off on the edge of the lawn is a crab apple tree that has spread its crimson berries over the ground, some of them broken and picked upon by birds. The air smells crisp, like fresh laundry.
Mr. Johnston answers the door along with a big black-and-tan Bernese mountain dog who barks gruffly. Mr. Johnston calls him Osso and shushes him. Osso obeys, sniffs my hands.
When Mr. Johnston asks how he can help, I tell him that I’m the sister of his neighbor across the street and am wondering if they had their surveillance system on during the night because my sister’s car was vandalized.
“The Morris kid up the road is a sophomore in high school, and I hear he’s been pranking his neighbor lately. Guess he tapped into their Wi-Fi and activated their printer and typed a bunch of creepy stuff as if he was a ghost.”
“Clever.” I smile. “Do you mind if we check your video footage?”
He looks over my shoulder, trying to see what’s been done to Jess’s car. In his early sixties, he has slicked-back hair and an Errol Flynn mustache. Khaki pants and a crisp white shirt suggest he’s soon off to work.
“You can’t see it from here,” I tell him. “It’s marker on the windshield.” I scratch Osso behind one ear. He nuzzles his head into my leg. This dog’s affection is the best thing that’s happened to me in days.
“Well,” he says, “don’t think my cameras pick up your sister’s house. Why doesn’t she park in her garage?”
“She’s been using it for storage. Anyway, I was thinking the camera out front might catch a bit of the street.”
He studies me a moment too long. I tuck a stray strand of hair back under the side of the hat. I’m grateful for Osso, as loving him up gives me an excuse to look down. And away.
Finally, he says, “Well, that’s a worry.”
You think you’ve got worries,I want to say, but refrain. “So yeah, I was wondering if your setup recorded any activity in the middle of the night.”
“This neighborhood doesn’t see much of that kind of thing. Though there was a garage break-in last summer, which is the reason I got the security system.”
“Smart,” I say. “Is it okay if I have a look at it?”
“Let me go grab my phone. Want to come in?”
“No,” I say. “I’m good out here.”
When Mr. Johnston returns, he begins scrolling, both of us standing on his porch. I’m standing at his side, breathing in his Old Spice and squinting at his phone’s screen. Boring flashes of a still, quiet street streak by. At 2:20 a.m. there’s a flash of motion and he slows down. He pushes the time bar slightly back. My pulse races. I wait patiently, but God I want to grab his phone and do the driving.
“Yes, yes,” he says. “Around two forty.”
“Can I see?” I hold out my hand. It takes effort not to grab it from him.
“Let me get it to the exact spot again.” He fiddles with the rewind again. “Here, 2:38, to be exact.”
