Page 6 of Detective Daddy Next Door

I'm exhausted when I get back home in the evening. It's been a gruesome day of going through endless paperwork and running around town to get stuff done. I'm glad to be back home. As I pull closer, I see that the house next to mine, a cozy white house with big, wide front steps, has a moving truck in front of it. It has been vacant for two weeks now. Maybe three weeks, I’m not sure. I wasn't really friendly with my old neighbors. We barely saw each other, anyway. But good to know there’s someone moving in now. I doubt we'll be too friendly, anyway.

I drive into my little driveway and bring the car to a stop. I pull my handbag off the front passenger seat and get out of the car, locking it. I'm going into my house when two men come out of the other house to get a chair from the moving truck. They lug the couch, a wine-colored beauty, in. The new tenant must have good taste, I think as I fiddle the key into the lock on my front door.

I just moved here about three months ago. I loved my old house, but it held too many memories with Chad. It had been our home together. It was painful to remain there. I wanted to flush every memory of him out of my mind. I got rid of every single thing that reminded me of him. This new place gives me peace. Nothing reminds me of him here, which was what I was going for when I went as far away as I could from my old place.

The new house is a bungalow, a beautiful one. It's just like the one next door. All the houses on the street have the same design, at least from what I can tell from the outside. I don’t know if it's the exact same design inside. I look over at my blue chairs. I sold off all my old furniture and used the money to buy new stuff.

This house makes me happy—the blue chairs, the little French chandelier in the middle of the living room ceiling, the opaque center table. I miss my old transparent table, but this one is just as beautiful. Spiral lamps sit on either side of the sofa. A sliding door leads to the back of the house where there's a little porch with two cane chairs on it. I've tried cultivating a garden twice and have failed, but I have no plans of leaving the house because I’m on a two-year lease; I still have time to pursue my dream of a perfect garden.

I pull my blazer off and throw it over my shoulder. Tossing my bag on an armchair, I make for the kitchen and get a glass out of the cabinet. I turn on the tap and begin to fill the glass as I stare at the house next door. There's no one outside. Then the two men I'd seen earlier come out, another man in tow. The glass slips out of my hands, and I fling my wet hands to my mouth. The glass is rolling noisily in the sink. I bring my hand down to stop the twirling glass, my eyes still glued to the window.

This must be a dream. A really bad one. The man standing in the front yard of the neighboring house looks exactly like Myles. He has his hair, his shoulders, his toned arms, his exact same height, and he has on the same shirt he was wearing that night in Vegas. Maybe it's his twin? But the longer I look at him, the more I realize I'm lying to myself.

It's Myles.

He’s there, standing next to my house. He turns his back to me as he talks to the other two men, and I know I can't lie to myself anymore. Myles, the man I had meaningless sex with in Las Vegas, the man who was rude to me, the man I thought I'd never see again, is my new next-door neighbor?

How did he find me? Oh my God, I hooked up with a stalker. I don't know what to do.

Chapter 4

Myles

"Daddy.CanIwearmy hair in a ponytail?" Ellie asks as I lace her shoes.

"You have your hair in a ponytail, El."

"I don't," she says sharply. "This is not a ponytail."

I finish lacing her shoes and look up. It indeed isn't a ponytail.

She narrows her eyes at me.

"But I thought…you were looking at me in the mirror when I did it, why didn't you stop me?"

She twists her lips. "Because I thought you knew what you were doing."

"What do you mean? Of course, I know what I'm doing."

She gestures at her head with just one finger to dispute my last sentence.

I sigh and get off my knees, then turn her around to face the mirror fully. "Alright. Let's fix it."

She shifts on her pink fluffy chair covered with feathers and looks into the mirror. I pull the hair tie from her hair and twist it up, then put the band around it.

"That's not a ponytail, daddy. That's a bun," she says in her tiny voice.

I sigh and take the hair tie off. "Sorry about that," I say as I set out to do it the right way. "Better?" I ask when I finish.

She nods her head. "It's beautiful. Thank you."

I nod. "Now time to eat," I say, and lead her out of the room.

The truth is I'm stressed. We moved to Long Beach a few days ago and I've been having a hard time settling in. Between the packing and unpacking—which I'm still not through with—and work, I'm exhausted. I'm realizing that I'm not as young as I used to be. I'm getting older. I miss the days when I could work back-to-back. Days when I felt invincible because I could push my body beyond its limits. I'm fit, but the body truly keeps the score. I'm not old. I'm only forty-nine, but I know I need help. A nanny for Ellie would be nice. Someone who'd take her to school, pick her up, and make sure she's safe and happy while I work.

I'm capable of doing all of that myself, but my job makes it difficult. I'm a detective; I work on cases and stay out at odd hours. Sometimes I have to leave the house very early or come back home in the middle of the night. I get calls all hours of the day and need someone to stay with Ellie. My wife and I are in the middle of a long, drawn-out divorce, and I just got sent to Long Beach to work on a case undercover.

I pour cereal into a bowl and pour in milk from the fridge. Cereal is the only quick edible thing we have—I can't whip up anything else right now.

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