Page 50 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Rue

There’s no sign of Hugo when I get home from work on Friday.

I blink, unsure if I’m somehow overlooking my hulking neighbor, but he’s not there. Not on his porch, not hunched over his roses, not loping around the side of the house with his clippers in hand, waving at me like the world’s happiest dork.

“This is a nice change,” I say to no one in particular, but the instant the words leave my mouth, I realize I don’t mean them.

This is not a nice change. It’s more than a little concerning, especially after getting only an hours-later thumbs-up reaction in response to my proof-of-life text last night.

I pull into my garage, my finger hovering over the button to close the door, but a little dart of worry keeps me from tapping it.

Hugo’s a grown man. He doesn’t need anyone checking up on him. A little change in routine isn’t anything to be worried about. Then again, he rarely leaves his house, and he never has visitors over. I don’t know who’d call in a wellness check on him if he truly disappeared. One of his clients, maybe, if he misses enough appointments.

“He’s fine,” I say out loud. “He’s an adult. He’s not my pet.”

But he kind of feels like my pet. Even so, I don’t need to check on him.

When I grab my bag and sling it over my shoulder, though, I can’t quite bring myself to walk into my house. When was the last time Dr. Bore missed two consecutive days at the mailbox? Plus, it’s sunny and unseasonably warm today. Hugo should be out with his shears and his fertilizer.

After one too many death scenes where a neighbor discovered a body far later than any of us would have preferred, I need to lay eyes on a living, breathing Hugo. I won’t be able to settle in for the rest of my night until I’m sure I’m not going to be the one combing through his house, looking for clues as to what caused his death.

With a half-annoyed, half-worried sigh, I hitch my workbag up my shoulder and walk to his half of the duplex, stepping onto his porch for the first time.

The realization has me hesitating before I lift my hand to knock. I’ve never once been to his front door—any mail that was misdelivered I either hand over in person or stick in his mailbox. He’s never invited me over for coffee or drinks or a meal. Of course, the same is true for me, but he’s been in my place doing landlord things like fixing that leaky bathroom faucet a couple of months ago.

This feels like an invasion. I don’t need to check on him. I should go.

I turn, ready to retreat to my half of the duplex, until I think about the big, open smile he greets me with every day, and something in my chest tightens.

Apparently, I’m going to check on him, possible invasion of privacy be damned.

The doorbell feels too jarring, so I settle for a gentle knock.

“Dr. Mohr,” I call, then immediately wince. I don’t know why I said that. I knock again, a little louder this time. “Hugo?”

Still nothing. I’m starting to feel both alarmed and idiotic. Maybe he’s out of town. Maybe he went to a conference—although wouldn’t a telehealth doctor go to teleconferences? Shit. Maybe he’s in a virtual session and couldn’t be outside to greet me, and I’m interrupting some important presentation on, I don’t know, depression for shut-ins.

Just as I’m about to implode from embarrassed indecisiveness, my neighbor’s blurry form appears through the wavy leaded glass, fractured and uncertain. Then the door cracks open to reveal a slice of his familiar face, looking almost as fractured as it did through the pane.

“Did you just call me Dr. Mohr?” he asks in a sluggish rasp.

“Hi,” I say awkwardly. “I’m sorry to bother you, but⁠—”

“Dr. Mohr?” he repeats, sounding confused.

“Sorry, I…” I gesture helplessly. “I wasn’t sure—I mean, when you weren’t—” I point at my garage, then over my shoulder at the mailboxes before letting my hands fall to my sides. “I was worried.”

The one eye I can see widens, and he opens the door all the way.

“Rue.” His unfocused gaze swims over me. “Are you really here?”

“Yes,” I say, my eyes finding the bruise on his jaw before snapping to the angry gash above his left eyebrow. It’s been closed with Steri-Strips, but the bruising underneath is horrific, deep purple at the center and spreading to an ugly greenish yellow that stretches almost to his cheekbone. “Holy shit, what happened?”

He blinks like he’s still trying to convince himself I’m actually standing on his welcome mat. Then he shuffles back a step and turns, walking unsteadily down the front entryway.

“Just an accident,” he says. “Shut the door.”