I lift the phone off my ear and shake it.
When I return it to my ear, John is saying, “The officer we sent didn’t find out anything useful from your neighbors. No suspect person wandering close to the house, no suspect activity in the area.”
Figures.
“That doesn’t mean much, of course,” John goes on. “Someone obviously stuck those messages to your door. We got some partial fingerprints from this last knife, but nothing conclusive. Most probably the perp isn’t in our system.”
Yeah, he said that before.
“What about Ross Jones?”
“The garage owner’s son you told us about?”
“No,” I snap. “Some other random Ross Jones. What do you think?”
“I think that you have quite a temper, Hansen.”
Unruffled. You got to hand it to John. He’s cool as shit.
And he’s right about the temper. I think of how I went off the rails with Octavia the other day when she said she knew about Emma, and wince.
I hear myself telling her to get out.
Rubbing at my eyes, I glance at where my kids are watching cartoons on TV. Octavia left without a word when I let myself inside, and I didn’t tell her about the message.
She didn’t ask. She didn’t ask how I am, didn’t even look at me as she kissed the kids goodbye, gathered her things and left.
I shouldn’t give a fuck.
I don’t, okay?
“Mr. Hansen. Are you still there?” John asks in my ear, and I clench my jaw.
“Yeah.”
“Maybe you should get a security system for your house. A camera will catch whoever is doing this, or at the very least make them think twice about doing it again.”
That’s an idea. I wonder why I didn’t think of it. “I’ll do that.”
“Good. You take care now, and be sure to lock the house at night.”
I grunt in agreement, and disconnect the call.
Security systems. Cameras.
What the fuck.
Or I just shake goddamn Ross until his teeth fall out and get him to stop harassing my family.
Ross isn’t at the garage when I arrive the next day, and asking around I find out he’s off today.
Goddammit.
I’m already in a foul mood, because Octavia didn’t say a single word to me this morning, and how pathetic is it that I’d been hoping to hear her voice?
Fucking pathetic, that’s how.
And it has to stop, this… need. Right the hell now.
But instead I get to work on an old Honda Civic that is as good as scrap and seethe in silence. I attack the faulty engine with a vengeance, checking it thoroughly, wrenching out cables and reading the gauges.
A bit too forcefully, maybe. After I stab myself in the hand for the second time with the screwdriver, Evan hauls me out from under the car and straight to the coffee machine as I curse a blue streak.
He pulls out a first aid kit from a corner and slaps a Band-Aid on my lacerated hand. “Hope your tetanus shots are up to date.”
“Fuck you,” I grumble, flexing my hand and fishing in my pocket for loose change to buy some goddamn coffee.
“Someone’s grumpy.”
“Now you sound like my mom.”
He laughs, leaning against the coffee machine.
And I don’t have enough coins. Figures.
He drops a coin into the slot and grins. “There you go.”
“Why the fuck are you so happy?”
“To piss you off.”
“Asshole.” But I shake my head.
“Someone else holds that title around here. Speaking of whom…” He straightens and loses the grin. “Why were you looking for Ross?”
Taking a sip of my scalding, bitter coffee, I debate whether to tell Evan. I trust him, as much as you can trust someone you’ve only known for a couple of weeks.
“There’s something I wanna ask him,” I say.
“Not gonna punch the living daylights out of him?” Evan asks casually.
I make myself stay perfectly still. “Depends. Why?”
“He’s been shooting daggers at you since the day you confronted him over Octavia. And I thought he might be worse than usual, since Octavia got herself a boyfriend.”
For some reason, my first thought is that he’s talking about me.
Then I think, Jesus F. Christ, Matt. Are you fucking nuts?
And then what he said hits me in the gut.
“What boyfriend?” I ask, the word a weird shape in my mouth.
“This young guy. Her neighbor, I guess. Adam something or other. They often go for ice cream together in the evening.”
Images of Octavia with another guy unfold in my brain’s eye, playing like a movie—his arms around her, his mouth on her, his body moving between her legs.
Red mists my vision.
Fucking shit.
I chuck the plastic cup at the wall where it leaves a dark smear, and stalk back into the garage.
“Matt. Jesus.” Evan huffs, starting after me. “What now?”
“Shut up,” I say and go back to pull the engine of the Honda apart until my hands bleed and my mind stops writhing like a wounded animal.
What do I care? Why am I so angry? What the hell do I want?
I’m so fucking pissed it takes me forever to ask myself why, if Ross is upset with Octavia getting a boyfriend, he’d post mysterious messages on my goddamn door.
After work, I know I should head straight home so that Octavia can leave.
Leave and go to her fucking boyfriend.
Instead I cruise through town, going in circles, trying to work off some of the stupid anger and adrenaline still coursing through my veins.
Trying to clear my mind and think.
Yeah, it makes no sense for Ross to target me.
Then again, you can never tell how psychopaths think. And there is the fact Octavia is at my house every day. I confronted him, told him she works for me. That she’s mine.
No, I never said that last bit. Fuck. And there’s no mistaking the hot rush of pleasure at the words as they echo in my mind.
Mine.
She’s not mine.
Back to Ross. He has access to basic information about me. He knows Octavia works for me. He’s obviously interested in her in some fucking twisted way and thought up this weird-ass plan to scare her.
Or scare me into firing her?
Far-fetched, much? Where’s the connection to Octavia in his messages? How was I supposed to figure this out?
Then again, nobody said he’s the brightest bulb in the box.
But why wouldn’t he go after her boyfriend instead of me? Unless he has, and I don’t know about it.
I’m getting nowhere like this. So I head home after all, and park outside, my gaze instantly going to the door, checking to see if there is another message.
There is.
I climb out of the car as if in a trance, stagger up the path to the house.
It says, “Looking for me?”
Son of a bitch.
I tear it off my door, not caring if I tear it to pieces.
Ross is a dead man.
“You’re late,” Mary yells and throws her doll across the living room where it hits my leg.
Good aim.
“She was worried,” Octavia says, keeping her gaze on Cole who’s busy with a coloring book.
Not looking at me.