Okay, now I'm puzzled, but I don't think I want to get clarity from Kurt. He is distraught as it is. But I wonder how well I actually know my friend.
"She does love you, Kurt. She told me that all the time." I try to offer him some kind of comfort.
"She could have fooled me." He smiles sadly, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Anyway, thank you for the coffee and for listening."
"You can call me, you know, anytime."
I watch the door long after he’s gone through it. The relationship he just described is the opposite of what Chelsea painted for me. She was happy and in love, planning a future with Kurt. Was she lying to me? Is he? This makes no sense.
Chapter 16
Anonymous
When I was a little girl, Billy bought me one of those camping lights meant to keep away insects. I never understood why until she set it up outside for us one day. It was a warm evening. I watched with fascination as moths circled the light. They were in a frenzy, unable to stay away from it. And then one of them flew too close, and I cringed at the sound of its tiny body frying. And yet the rest of them learned nothing, they continued to pursue the light despite knowing it could lead to their demise. We're all tempted to pursue the one thing that will lead to our destruction. It is nature.
When I was fifteen years old, Billy moved us closer to Rob, or so I thought. I'd come to understand that I didn't really have a say in anything we did. Still, I could attend a better school in exchange for working at his grocery store for free. I hated my new school, I hated the entitled pieces of shit. I attended it with, but I kept my head down, and I kept to myself. I had one friend. She was so high I doubt she knew her own name half the time. I was happy to float through high school unnoticed with Chloe by my side, until him. Captain of the soccer team. I never had any interest in guys before him. But he was taken. Taken by Sinclair Lovell.
"That chick, the redhead, she looks just like you. You're the cheap knock-off version, though," Chloe snorts. We were sitting on the anthill, as she called it during the break. It was odd, the similarity between the two of us and the fact that I never noticed it until Chloe pointed it out.
“Fuck off,” I flipped her off and continued to read my book, or pretended to, my eyes never left Cohen. Or Sinclair for that matter. And that was the day I started to pay more attention to them, to her in particular, because I could not for the life of me understand what made people like her better than me.
You're worried, Sin, about that friend of yours. You're not writing, not anymore. You wander aimlessly about your house all day waiting for news. If only you knew what I did. Would you still be as concerned as you are right now? I look at the house next door to you, I will wait till nightfall to get back inside. Mrs. Gregory is in bed, the tea I made her had her dozing off. I hate that I have to go to such lengths, but when she's awake and alert, she does get a bit nosy. Asking me questions, I don't really want to answer. She's also very observant. Settling in her recliner, that smells of an old person, I lean my head back and close my eyes, thinking about the lengths I’ve gone to. This little bump in the road, the disappearance of your friend, it messed things up for me Sin. The plan was simple, and now, I have to rethink everything.
It'sdark out when my eyes pry open, the glow from the streetlights tell me I've been asleep for longer than I'd planned. Walking over to the window, I see the lights are on in every room of your home. It's like looking into a doll's house. I used to walk past one in a store window when I was younger. I always wanted one, but it was so far out of my reach back then. I consider getting one, but then I realize that this right here, this glimpse into your life is far more exciting. Sin, you have no idea the lengths I would go to protect you. Stifling a yawn and standing. I draw the curtains together and turn on the lights. I’d better start on some dinner for Mrs. Gregory. I opt for a butternut soup. She likes it when I make it, says it reminds her of the soups her mother used to make. I’ll serve it with some of the bread I baked earlier in the week. I make sure to add a bit of happy dust into her soup, to knock her out till the morning. She’s sitting up in bed when I enter her room.
“Sleep well, Mrs. G?”
"Wonderful. I'm famished, though, dear."
"Good thing I'm here." I smile at her sweetly, setting the tray down on her lap. I hand her a glass of water, and she slurps it down greedily.
“I should really see a doctor about this lethargy.” She frowns. “I can’t remember the last time I slept this much. Not even after Walter died.”
"Ahead of you on that. I called the doctor, and he should be here in the morning."
"Oh, that's kind of you. I'm so lucky to have you here."
Mrs. Gregory digs into her soup with a shaky hand. She moans after a bite, a bit of soup hanging at the corner of her mouth. “Just like mama used to make it.”
I smile, satisfied that she’ll finish the whole lot.
"Have you never married, child?" she asks, dipping bread into her soup.
I shake my head. “Never did see the need. I’ve always been more of a loner.”
"And you never desired to have children?" She tilts her head.
“It crossed my mind, but kids will go off eventually, have their own lives, and I’ll be left alone.”
She nods, a shadow of sadness falling over her face. She and her husband Walt couldn't have kids. They'd tried and eventually gave up. She would have loved children. A dozen of them, she confessed.
"How we doing there, Mrs. G?" She's leaning against the headboard, her soup half-finished, her eyes shut. She groans, and the spoon slips from her hand completely. I move the tray away from her, wipe her mouth, and settle her comfortably onto the pillow.
"Good night, Mrs. G," I say as I turn off her lights and go downstairs to wait.
I change into black sweatpants,a hoodie, and then tuck my hair into a ponytail. Sin and her family are still going about their evening together. I sneak around the back of Chelsea's house and into her backyard. It's slightly overgrown with her being away. I say that with good reason. I don't believe you're capable of something as heinous as kidnapping. You're far too kind, Sin. Your naive mind doesn't work that way. I turn the knob and grin when it's unlocked, although sleuthing is not beneath me. I walk into the dimly lit kitchen, only the light above the stove illuminates. The kitchen is modern, well suited to the fancy Chelsea. There is something about her disappearance and appearance, in general, that doesn't sit right with me, and I need to uncover what that is. I walk into the living room and still when I hear soft snoring.What the actual fuck?Nobody is supposed to be here. I move slowly toward the snoring and see a hand holding a bottle of whiskey, inches from crashing onto the floor. I decide to chance it and pry the bottle from the man's hand. He's completely out of it. Kurt. Chelsea's boyfriend. Poor guy. I move away from his sleeping form. He's harmless.
I walk down the hallway toward her bedroom. Using my torch, I scour cupboards, under beds, and all her drawers. There is nothing that indicates what actually happened to the woman. But I have my suspicions; though none I can prove. Well, not yet, but soon. I sigh. I leave her room and rummage through her office next. I'm about to call it a night, come back when it's light when I spot something. I walk over to her bookshelf. One of her books is placed the other way around. I pull it out, opening it. To my absolute delight, it's not Book Three in the Game of Thrones box set, but a notebook of some kind. Numbers and names are scribbled across the pages, dates, and times, schedules stare back at me. I stuff it into my duffle bag. This may come in handy. I carefully make my way out of the office and walk back to the living room, the man still lying lifeless on the couch. I feel sorry for him, the thought of someone you love out there. The uncertainty. I make my way back to the kitchen, and it's then I realize that something sounds different. It hits me. The snoring. I'm about to make a run for it when strong hands grab me by the shoulder. "Who are you?" he slurs.
