“Okay, we’ll file a report,” the cop says with a bored expression, like he’d rather be at the station stuffing his face with donuts.

“That’s it? You’re not going to, I don’t know, actually try to find the person who sent this?” My voice sounds louder and harsher than I intended. Blood rushes through my veins, making me restless, making me want to do something, run somewhere, punch someone. And if this cop annoys me any further, that someone could very well be him.

“Sir, our resources are limited,” he says without even taking his eyes off his stupid fucking notebook where he’s scribbling useless shit. What’s the point of taking notes if he doesn’t plan on doing anything about it?

“Yeah? What big crimes have been committed in Ashbourne that are keeping you busy? Jaywalking? Bike thefts? Teenagers smoking pot?”

“Please calm down, Sir.” The cop keeps his head facing down while glancing up at me from beneath his unibrow. He’s getting annoyed. Good. “We don’t even know if a crime has been committed here. So someone leaves a note in Miss Lake’s mailbox. She’s unharmed. It could’ve been a prank. Maybe a friend actually thinks she should take up running for health reasons. Maybe a student has a crush on Miss Lake and his girlfriend leaves her a note out of teenage jealousy. Maybe it’s a new viral marketing campaign. It could be anything.”

“Are you being serious right now?” I glare at the cop, but he just shrugs without meeting my eyes. I can’t believe this.

I throw my hands in the air and glance at Jessica. Poor girl. She looks pale as a sheet, just sitting there on the railing of her porch while Mr. Busy Cop and I talk on her driveway.

I should at least try again. “Look at that woman right there. She’s scared shitless. And you’re going to tell me you’re not going to do anything about this?”

“Miss Lake told me herself it’s probably nothing. The only person pressing the matter is you, and you have nothing to do with it, do you?” The cop flips the pages of his notebook. “According to my notes, you’re just a neighbor. Is that right?”

“Yes,” I say begrudgingly. I have no idea why Jessica is acting like this is the end of the world, and yet wouldn’t tell the cop to work on the case.

“And you didn’t see anybody approaching Miss Lake’s mailbox?”

“No.” I shouldn’t have been wearing those fucking noise-canceling headphones. I would’ve been more alert without them. I could’ve caught the guy who did this to Jessica.

“Then we’re done here,” the cop says as he closes his damn notebook with finality and flashes me an infuriating satisfied smile.

He waddles to his patrol car, where his partner has been sitting and twiddling his thumbs the whole time. Limited resources, my ass.

Ah, fuck it. If they're not going to do anything, I’ll take care of it myself. What can the cops do to protect Jessica that I can't anyway?

Although technically, the cop was right. I'm just a neighbor. A strange letter in my neighbor’s mailbox shouldn't bother me this much. So why is it that all I want to do is hunt down whoever sent it and beat him up?

My footsteps make hollow sounds on the wooden floor of the porch as I approach Jessica and sit down beside her on the railing. She's still shaking, her green eyes staring so intently at the floor I have to check if there's anything on wooden planks. She doesn't even seem to realize I’m here.

What is she so afraid of—or rather, who—and how do I get my fists on his face? Why doesn't she want to tell the cops anything?

Is this why she has moved here to Ashbourne? To run away from something?

What kind of dangerous shit is she involved in? What has she done to get herself in this situation? Is the reason why she says nothing to the cops, because she's committed a crime herself?

I have so many questions.

I study Jessica’s face, seeing the worry in her eyes, the lines on her forehead, the way she’s biting the insides of her cheeks. Her hands grip the railing so hard her knuckles are turning white. Her spine is curved, her muscles tense.

On impulse, I put my arm around her shoulders. She gasps in surprise and snaps her head around to look at me. I pull her closer and stroke her arm.

She’s cold, but I’m going to warm her up. I’ll fix it for her. Just like I’ll fix this situation for her. Who cares why? All I know is I can't just do nothing. I can't just sit here and watch her suffer.

“Are you okay?” As I continue to stroke Jessica’s arm, I feel her start to relax into me, placing more of her weight on my chest.

“Yeah.” She nods.

“Who's doing this?”

“I don't know.”

I pause to suppress my anger that's flaring up. I don't want to make her feel worse, but I need to know who's doing this to her or I have a feeling they may hurt more than her feelings next time. “Do you think it's the same guy who broke into your home?”

“I don't know,” she insists.

I pull away just far enough from her so I can put both my hands on her shoulders and level my gaze at her. “Jessica. We both know that's bullshit. What are you not telling me?”

“It's none of your business.” Jessica leans back further away from me until I remove my hands from her shoulders. Storm brews in her green eyes. She's obviously troubled, so why the fuck is she playing this game? Why is she being so fucking stubborn?

“I’ve made it my business and there's nothing you can do about it. I don't care if you don't want my help. I'll fix this and you’ll just have to deal with that.”

“Why?” She frowns at me, confusion written all over her face.

“Fuck if I know.” I shrug. “Does it matter? I'm here to help you. Use me.”

“You could be one of them for all I know,” she says. The surprise that registers on her pretty face tells me she didn't mean to share that bit of information with me.

“Who’s ‘them?’”

“Forget it.” Jessica takes a deep breath and looks away at the street that runs in front of both our houses.

“No, fuck that. You could be in real danger here, can't you? I know you hate me, but this really isn't the time to argue.”

“I don't hate you,” she says softly, keeping her gaze on the street.

“Just let me help you. Okay? You know you can't handle this on your own. That's why you're so scared.”

She turns to look at me, doubt reflected in her startlingly green eyes.

“You know you’ll feel better if you’ve got someone on your side,” I say. When I hear no reply from her, I repeat my question. “Do you know who's doing this to you?”

“No. Like the cop said, it could be anyone.” She's starting to annoy me with her lies and I’m about to get really angry when she continues, “It could be the owner of the Pussy Cat.”

“The strip club where you worked?”

“Yeah.”

“You pissed off the guy and now he's coming after you?”

“You can say that.”

“What did you do exactly?”

“I don't want to talk about that.”

“Okay.” I wonder if he's another one in a long list of Jessica's ex-lovers.

This is why women shouldn't sleep around. Not because of morality or religion or anything like that, but because the more men they see, the more likely they are to come across some crazy motherfuckers. These nutjobs would rather kill their women than see them with other men.

“He's in jail, so it's definitely not him personally. But it could be someone who works for him,” she says.

“Like who? Do you know?”

“There was this guy I went on a date with just before the break-in. Although now that I think about it, it couldn't have been him who broke into my house because he was with me when it happened.” She pauses and thinks. “I got a weird email yesterday from some guy I don't know. But the sender doesn't seem like the kind of guy who’d hide his identity.”

“Anyone else? Anyone you can think of?”

“Well…” Jessica finally looks at me. She gives me a wry smile. “There's you.”

“Me? Why would I want to break your lock or send you a weird letter? What good would that do me?”

“I don't know.” She shrugs. “You asked for anyone I could think of.”

“Fair enough. I promise you it's not me. But then again if I were the culprit that's exactly what I would say.”

The corners of Jessica's lips pull upward. Her smile turns into a grin, which turns into laughter. I don't think I said anything that funny, but maybe she needs to laugh to get rid of her anxiety.

“Stay at my place tonight,” I blurt out.