Page 119 of Coach
“Nah, man. I’m there just to work out. You know that. But… wait… I did overhear him talking to the maintenance guy.”
“About what?”
“He was watching the guy screw a new sign up. He commented on the drill the guy was using, saying he recently got one just like it. Because he’s been doing a lot of renovation—”
I didn’t even let him finish.
I turned and ran like the fucking wind.
Because, of course.
Of-fucking-course.
If he was that obsessed with Este, enough to leave his whole life behind, to be following her a decade later, he would want to stay as close as possible to her.
While he worked on whatever sick fucking project he had in mind.
He was the neighbor who was driving her crazy day and night, never letting her rest.
Maybe it was to fuck with her.
But maybe it was because he was creating some sort of house of horrors for her.
It sounded crazy. But I’d caught more than a few true crime podcasts where women were kept in elaborate prisons by their captors. For weeks, months, years.
I saw one case where it was a barn. Another, a shed. But most commonly.
Basements.
Like the one the duplex had.
But Este had no access to.
But her neighbor did.
Had he been there all along, right under her feet, building a prison to trap her in?
Crazier things had happened.
My lungs burned as I turned down Este’s street, my heart hammering in my chest.
But the closer I got, the more I let the anger loose, little by little, until it was a burning inferno that took over me completely.
I wasn’t even fully aware of how the front door opened.
Did I kick it in?
Rip it off its hinges?
Simply reach for the doorknob?
I had no idea.
All I did know was I was barely five feet inside before I was greeted by the man from the picture. Just, as Detroit said, leaner, fitter.
“She’smine!” he snarled as he ran right at me.
“If she’s yours,” I said, landing a fist to his jaw, “then why was I inside her a day ago?”
