Next to Me by Allie Everhart
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, things, and events are fictitious, and any similarities to real persons (live or dead), things, or events are coincidental and not intended by the author. Brand names of products mentioned in this book are used for reference only and the author acknowledges that any trademarks and product names are the property of their respective owners.
The author holds exclusive rights to this work and unauthorized duplication is prohibited. No part of this book is to be reproduced in any form without written permission from the author.
Chapter One
Callie
One, two, three, four. I continue counting the steps in my head as I walk to the mailbox. I don't know why I do it. Why I constantly count. I didn't used to. Three hundred and eighty-five days ago I only counted when I needed to. In fact, counting used to be a good thing. Only four days until Christmas. Six days until my birthday. One week until I'm home on summer break.
Ten, eleven...
"Twelve," I mumble to myself as I reach the mailbox. It takes exactly twelve steps to get to the mailbox and twelve steps to get back. I never knew this until a few days after it happened. Before that, I wouldn't have cared. I still don't care. And yet I keep counting, each and every day.
I put my electric bill in the box, then turn and walk back. One, two, three...
My gaze is focused on the concrete path that leads to the house. It's cracked and crooked, the ground seeping through, making it uneven and dangerous to walk on. That's why I always look down, making sure I don't trip.
Seven, eight—
An engine roars behind me.
"What the..." I look over and see a large, black, rusted-out pickup pulling in next door. It's going way too fast and jerks to a stop. The loud rumbling engine idles a moment, then turns off.
A shot rings out and I trip on the sidewalk and drop flat to the ground.
What was that? Did someone just shoot at me? I freeze, waiting to see if they'll shoot again. I hear the door of the truck squeak open, then slam shut. I keep my gaze low to the ground, afraid to look up and see the person who I'm now assuming is a raging lunatic who just randomly shoots his gun at strangers.
I'm shaking as I stare at a pair of black work boots which are now planted in the driveway next to mine. The owner of the boots is not moving, his legs in a wide stance facing the house. Did he come here to kill my neighbor? If so, my neighbor's already dead. Old Man Freeson, as I used to call him, died last year and his house has been abandoned ever since.
The boots take a step forward, then stop again.
"Oh, shit," a deep voice says, and then the boots stalk toward me at a rapid pace.
'Oh, shit' is right. He's coming to kill me! And I'm so frozen with fear I can't get up.
"Hey. Are you—"
"Stop!" I yell, crawling backwards on my hands. "Get away from me!"
The boots are in front of me now, as is a man's face. He's crouched down, staring at me with the bluest eyes I've ever seen. He looks older than me, maybe 24 or 25. "I was just seeing if you're—"
"What do you want?" I ask, scooting back more, landing in the wet grass. I feel it soaking through my shorts but that's the least of my problems right now. I point to my house. "Take what you want." My voice is shaky, my heart pounding. "Just please don't hurt me."
"Hurt you?" He cocks his head. "What are you talking about? I came over to help you. And it looks like you need it." His hand touches my leg and I freeze again, then glance down and see my knee is bleeding. I must've scraped it when I fell. It's more than a scrape. It's bleeding a lot and it hurts like hell.
"Don't touch me!" I yank my leg back. "Get out of here!"
He's staring at me and his lips slowly turn up. "Are you always this friendly to your new neighbors?"
"Neighbors?" I scrunch my face up in confusion.
He rises to standing and holds his hand out. "Here. Let me help you up."
I gaze up at him. For a deranged lunatic, he's really hot. Over six feet tall with a deep tan, short dark hair, and rugged features. He's wearing a gray t-shirt that stretches over his thick shoulders and clings to his biceps. He's a big guy and all muscle. He wouldn't need a gun to kill me. He could do it with his bare hands.
He's still waiting for me to take his hand, but I won't do it. This is obviously a trap. Shooting me on the ground is too boring. Too easy. Instead he'll drag me to the neighbor's house, torture me for hours, then kill me.
Oh, God. What if that's his plan? Why me? I don't even know him.
"Hey." He's crouched in front of me again and puts his hand on my arm.
I yank it back. "Stop touching me! Why are you doing this? Why are you trying to kill me?"