Page 5 of Meeting Melody
3
JACOB
It’s late when I return to Melody’s house.
At some point, I stopped thinking of her asprofessor, an authority figure, and more by her first name. I guess dreaming about fucking her mouth will do that.
She’s young for a professor, I think. At least, she isn’t gray-haired like some of my others. Stalking her social media, I learned that she graduated from a small college in New York ten years ago. Went on to get her master’s degree. Taught at her alma mater for a few years, and now she’s here. A collection of sparse photos that pieced together her past.
That would make her… Thirty-two?
Only eleven years my senior. That’s not even a true age gap by some standards.
I shake out my limbs. My hair is still damp from hockey practice. I’m too hot in my jacket, but I’ll be too exposed without it. The tattoos on my arms are identifiers that must be hidden, just in case a neighbor peeks out and sees me. Just in case anyone gives a shit.
All the lights are out in her house, and I spend a few minutes watching it from across the street. Then I shake off my trepidation. I hop the fence and climb the deck stairs. I pull on leather gloves and check the door handle before I try to pick the lock. It swings inward on silent hinges.
I shake my head in disgust. First lesson? Always lock your doors. I wouldn’t have minded the challenge—in fact, I would’ve been happier for it. Because if not me, someone else could’ve tried this. Had the same idea of breaking in…
My jaw tightens.
I step inside and close the door swiftly behind me, then pause. I strain to hear any sound—just in case she has tricks hidden up her sleeves.
A single woman, living alone?
Irrational anger flashes through me, and I slip my bag off my shoulder. I set it on her counter and lay out my supplies.
My father is the police chief of my small hometown, which has its advantages.
For one: he passed on a lot of life lessons to his kids. Mainly about the stupidity of criminals. Many nights he’d sit at the head of the dinner table and regale us of how he caught so-and-so for breaking and entering the convenience store down the street, or another person for assault.
Probably not the best dinner talk, but I soaked it up like a sponge.
Dad would like me to go into the police academy. Become a detective, work my way up like he did. This hockey situation is just temporary, he thinks.
I’m not so sure I’d be cut out for police work. I stray toward the other end of the law…
Which leads me to the second advantage: I got away with murder.
Notliterally. But the normal stuff. If I got pulled over for speeding, I was let go with a light warning. Once, I was brought into the station in cuffs for sneaking into my girlfriend’s house—her parents called the cops—and my fatherraged. The officers couldn’t get the handcuffs off me fast enough.
But the most helpful advantage in this situation? Making friends with the tech department at the station. There’s a lot that a kid can get up to, if left to wander… and more when that kid turns into an unruly teenager.
I touch the equipment and smile. I don’t fully understand this feeling inside me. I just want to know Melody completely—and there’s no way she’s letting me in without a little persuasion.
So I’m getting the upper hand.
Cameras. Audio.
I pick up one of the cameras, which transmits wirelessly to an app on my phone. I take the clock off her wall and fix it right in the center. It takes some time to make sure the angle will work. I continue through her downstairs, moving like a ghost. I pause every so often and listen, but there’s not so much as a peep coming from upstairs.
With the first floor covered, I take slow, methodical steps up to the second level. The stairs only creak slightly, which I note for my exit.
There are two bedrooms up here, with a bathroom in between. One bedroom door is open, but a quick peek reveals a neat guest room. There are easels in the corner by the window, drawing my intrigue.
She spends time in here, perhaps.
Painting? Drawing?
