Chapter Four
Jeremy
It’s getting chilly out, but the woman is right where my research said she would be, in front of the weekly farmer’s market. Wrapping her sweater around her tighter, she waves a flyer at people walking past, who largely ignore her. Undaunted, she keeps trying.
Unfolding a reusable cloth grocery bag, I browse through the produce, picking up a few items while keeping her in my sight. She notices me when I pay for my items, and approaches me with a wide smile.
“Hi, do you have a second to speak with me?”
“Sure.” I grin at her. “What can I do for you?”
“Actually, I’m hoping to do something for you.” She glances down at the bag in my hand. “Why do you use reusable bags?”
After my research, I know what she wants to hear. Under all the anti-consumerism blather, the group is really a bunch of environmentalists. I have nothing against caring for the environment. I recycle and try to do my part, but these people are a group of psychos turned domestic terrorists.
“Plastic is terrible for the environment. Why would I want to add to it?”
“Exactly,” she agrees with a smile. Her eyes travel down to my watch. I thought it was a nice touch. Not many people wear watches anymore. Not with a phone in their pocket that can give them the time.
She peeks into my grocery bag. “The corn is good from here, but the supercenter down the street has it a lot cheaper, you know, same for most of the food they sell here.”
“Thanks, but I prefer fresh food. I keep my own garden in the summer, but worms got to most of it this year. Besides, those supercenters kill small businesses. Not to mention filling the ocean with those awful plastic bags.”
Shivering a bit, she asks, “Do you think I could borrow your phone for a second? I need to call my ride.”
Shaking my head, I gesture to the man collecting the money for the market. “I’m sorry. I don’t have a phone. Never saw the point. I’m sure they would let you use theirs though.”
The look on her face is like she’s struck gold. “Sir!” She hands me a flyer as I start to walk away. “I belong to a little group that helps spread awareness of the dangers consumerism causes to the planet. You wouldn’t believe the amount of toxins and debris all those phones add to the earth.”
Scoffing, I shake my head. “Considering people line up to get the newest one every time it comes out, even though the one they have works perfectly fine, yeah, I would. What a waste.”
Grinning, she sticks out her hand. “I’m Kelly.”
“Jeremy.” My hand swallows hers.
“You should come to one of our meetings, Jeremy. We could use all the help we can get.”
To mass murder people in a shopping mall? Fucking assholes. I somehow keep my temper in check, force a smile, and glance down at the paper in my hand. “It’s in the evening?”
She points to the paper. “Yes, at this address. We’ll have a speaker and then a bonfire where we all just hang out and discuss our ideas.”
“Sounds good.” I give her a smile that has never failed to work for me. “Will you be there?”
A blush climbs her cheeks. “Yes, I’m always there.”
“I’ll check it out then. Have a good day, Kelly.”
“Nice to meet you, Jeremy.”
That was easier than I expected it to be. Of course, they’re recruiting. After three of their leaders shot and killed twenty-two people in an Indianapolis Mall a few months ago, quite a few of their followers abandoned them.
You’d think it would be hard to track a group who don’t believe in spending money on technology or anything they consider unnecessary, but like most cults, the rules don’t apply to all of them. Underneath, it’s about the same two things all cults are truly interested in. Money and power. Control over their brainwashed followers.
I was able to find financial information on the dead gunmen that the authorities missed. Millions of dollars they’ve taken from their followers and collected by pretending to be an environmental charity. Apparently, no one had access to it but them, since it has sat in accounts, untouched since their deaths. I’m not sure what I want to do with the information yet, so I’ve just been monitoring the accounts.
The little bonfire party slash brainwashing attempt is weeks away, so I have time to think through my strategy.
#
A knock at the door pulls me away from my work. I know it’s not the guys this time since I’ve been keeping in touch with them. I haven’t drank since that catastrophic night with Melissa. I’m surprised to see an older lady staring back at me through the peephole. I’ve seen her next door lately, so maybe she’s living there.
When I open the door, she walks in uninvited and glares at me. Great. I’ve found a way to piss off females without even leaving the house.
“Come on in,” I scoff.
A bony finger points in my direction. “You. Do you have any decency whatsoever? That girl has no one, and you’re abandoning her with this responsibility?”
What the hell is she talking about? Maybe she has dementia or something.
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
“Melissa is a sweet, young, trusting woman who has had a hard way to go. She shouldn’t have to raise a baby alone just because she got knocked up by a selfish jerk.”
Her words slowly sink in, and pure terror grabs hold of me.
Staggering back to sit on the arm of my couch, I take a deep breath. “She’s pregnant?”
“No fooling you.” The woman rolls her eyes.
“I—how—”
Her eyebrow cocks. “I’m fairly sure you know how babies are made.”
One night. The only night in my entire life that I didn’t use a condom. At least, I’m assuming I didn’t. I can’t remember a thing.
A baby. I can’t have a baby. I’m barely taking care of myself.
Scrubbing my hand over my cheek, I ask, “Who are you, again?”
“My name’s Agnes. I’m a friend of Melissa. I’ve been staying with her, but I’m moving to Florida with my boyfriend soon and whether she likes it or not, she needs someone to look out for her.”
“She never told me,” I breathe, still trying to wrap my head around the huge mess I’m in. I just saw her yesterday, and she sure didn’t look pregnant. Closing my eyes, I do the math in my head. She’d only be about seven weeks. Women don’t show that early, do they? Fuck, I don’t know. I should’ve paid more attention when Dare’s wife, Ayda, was pregnant.
Agnes heads toward the door. “I figured as much. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell her I let the cat out of the bag. She’s a good friend. She’ll tell you when she’s ready. I’m just trying to do what’s right for her.” She pauses before leaving. “And your child.”
I don’t know how long I sit there after she leaves. For the first time in my life, I have no idea what to do. Part of me wants to barge into her house and demand she explain why she didn’t tell me, but really, why would she?
I treated her like shit, threw her out the morning after we slept together. I doubt I’m the guy she’d want to father her child. Even if she needs help, I’m sure I’m not the one she’d come to. The kid would probably be better off without me anyway, and it’s not like anyone else would know. Hell, when my job here is done, I could head back to Indy and pretend none of this ever happened.
Maybe. But I’d still have a kid out there, and I couldn’t live without knowing he or she was taken care of. I need to know more about Melissa. I need to make sure she’s financially prepared for a baby, but I don’t want to get too involved and have her expect things from me I’m not capable of providing. Agnes said she has no one.
Well, she has someone now. She just won’t know it.
By a stroke of luck, a package addressed to Melissa sits on my porch when I head outside the next day. Her last name is Sanders. I’d put her age around twenty-three or so. It shouldn’t be hard to find her information now.
First things first, though, I scoop up the package and walk next door. I’m sure she isn’t going to be thrilled to see me, but she’ll just have to deal with it if she wants her package. The steps leading to her porch have seen better days. They’re half rotted and soft in spots. If I weighed any more, I could’ve put a foot right through. They’re dangerous.
It takes her a few moments to come to the door when I knock, and she hesitates before reluctantly opening the door. “What do you want?” she demands.
Yeah, she hates me. Fair enough.
“This came to my place by mistake,” I explain, holding up the box.
Before she has a chance to answer me, a very hyper wiener dog darts through the door and runs around me in circles, barking his head off.
“Woody! Get back in here!”
A snort of laughter escapes me. “You named your wiener dog Woody?”
“I didn’t name him. I just wasn’t going to change it.”
Woody growls and bares his teeth when I reach for him, and Melissa smiles, picking him up. “At least I know you have good instincts,” she says to the pup, placing him back inside the door. Taking the package from me, she mumbles, “Thank you.” Before I can say anything, she retreats inside and shuts the door in my face.
I guess I don’t have to worry about her wanting too much from me. Still, as I walk back down those rickety steps, I know I need to do something. She’s little now, but once she’s got a big pregnant belly the steps won’t be so easy. She could fall and hurt herself or the baby.
I may not be a master craftsman like Tucker, but I can build some damn steps. A trip to the hardware store is a necessity though, since I don’t think there’s a tool anywhere in my house. I’m glad I at least have a tape measure so I can see what size boards I need. I have no intention of knocking on her door again, so I just grab the tape measure and quickly jot down the numbers before the yappy mutt gives me away.
It's nice to have a project to work on that isn’t driven by hate and retribution. Since Justus and Tucker came and pulled me back into the world, that has been my singular focus, but I can feel how much I need another outlet. I also need to be busy and keep myself from thinking about the horrible mistake I’ve made. Melissa needs help, and I need a distraction. It’s perfect.
My credit card gets a workout for the first time since I moved here as I shop for tools and general hardware supplies. I end up finding a pre-cut kit for outdoor stairs that looks easy enough to build, so at least I don’t have to Google how to go about it.
By the time I get all the supplies and make it back home, it’s dark out. A faint light shines from Melissa’s front window, and I can hear music playing inside. For the first time, I wonder about her. Who she really is and how she ended up here all alone. I suppose tonight is as good a time as any to find out.
The rest of my night is spent on the computer, spying on my neighbor.
#
I’m up early for a change and when I peek outside, Melissa’s car is gone. This woman just becomes a bigger mystery the more I research her. She’s been completely off the grid for years, and that’s no easy feat to manage. When I hacked into her financials, I thought maybe I had the wrong person, but, no, it’s her.
Before her disappearing act, she was a successful artist, known to everyone as Melly. A child prodigy who had paintings hanging in galleries across the country by age twelve. There was public speculation about her when she stopped working or being seen in public, but nothing was considered suspicious.
She told her friends and associates that she was moving out of the country with her sister. Since they had just lost their father—their only parent—to a heart attack, and had no other family, it made sense. But there’s no record of either of them until a few months ago, and the sister is still in the wind.
I may look into her whereabouts a bit more later, but for now, I know what I need to know. Even without my money, my child won’t do without anything. That doesn’t mean I won’t contribute, but it’s a relief all the same. Considering the way I’ve treated her, and the fact that’s not going to change much since I don’t want to be any more a part of this situation than I have to, it’s possible she’ll refuse any money I try to give her anyway.
I’ll just have to keep an eye on her throughout the pregnancy and make sure she isn’t putting herself and the baby in any danger. Today, that means building steps.
I grab my phone and find some suitable music to get motivated, then back my truck up her driveway and unload the wood and supplies. She could be back at any time, so I move my truck back to my driveway where I won’t get blocked in, then set to work.
Her old steps may be rotting and soft, but they’re a bitch to tear out, and I’ve probably sweated off twenty pounds by the time I have them demolished. The kit makes everything pretty simple, and by the time I hear Melissa’s car turning into the driveway, I’m using the long timber screws to attach the framing to the house.
I don’t get a chance to explain what I’m doing before she flies out of her car.
“What the hell are you doing?”
I calmly pick up a riser and position it before responding. “Fixing your steps. They were a death trap.”
The electric screwdriver whirrs too loudly for her to answer me as I attach the riser, but when I turn, her mouth is hanging open.
“Are you drunk? This is my house! You can’t just tear up my house!”
“I had to tear out the old ones. They couldn’t be repaired. Had to be replaced.” The screwdriver jumps to life again as I affix the next board.
“I know they needed to be fixed! It was on my list! What the hell does this have to do with you? I’m sorry if my house doesn’t live up to your spoiled, rich dick expectations, but just because you’re loaded doesn’t mean you can do whatever the fuck you want to other people’s property!”
My knee pops as I get to my feet and face her. “What makes you think I’m rich?” Nothing about my income or family came up the night we spent together, as far as I remember anyway.
Her eyes reach for the sky, and she huffs. “Believe it or not, most people don’t just throw fifteen hundred dollars on the ground like it’s nothing. Only a spoiled, entitled asshole behaves like that.”
What is she going on about? Fifteen hundred dollars? It strikes me that’s how much I found in my mailbox.
“Are you the one who put the money in my mailbox?”
She crosses her arms and a little line appears between her eyes as she frowns. “Of course I did. How many other people have you thrown money at so they’d stop the fucking racket?” she says, using air quotes around her last words.
The confused expression on my face really frustrates her. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. You don’t even remember, do you? Let me refresh your memory. I was trying to have a yard sale and you stormed over, drunk off your ass, and demanded I stop. Then you told me if I was so hard up for money, to take yours. You proceeded to pull a wad of cash out of your pocket and throw it at my feet.”
Shit. No, I don’t remember that.
“But, that was before you spent the night with me.”
“Yeah,” she scoffs. “Some lessons I have to learn the hard way, but I do learn them. I don’t know what you’re doing, if you’re bored and screwing with me or what, but you need to leave me alone.” She glances down to the half-built stairs. “After you fix what you tore up.”
She spins around and stalks to the side door. The lock clicks and she says, “No. Woody. You’re not coming out yet.” She returns to her car and starts carrying in bags. I get back to my work, but I can’t seem to stop myself from watching her out of the corner of my eye.
She sneaks a peek at me every time she stalks past, and that little line between her eyes deepens. She’s fuming and it’s fucking adorable. I used to love the smart, sassy, take no shit women, but the last thing I want to do is get involved with anyone now, especially since I’m not fit to be anyone’s father, and she obviously agrees since she hasn’t even told me about the baby.
I have no intention of letting on that I know. I’ll be helping her when I can, to make sure they’re safe, but it’s the same as I would do for any woman all alone in her condition. If she decides to tell me, then I’ll discuss setting up support payments, but unless or until that happens, I’m just sticking money into an account for the child when it’s grown.
She slams the car door and leaves a fifty-pound bag of puppy food on the ground near her rear tire while she carries in the last of the grocery bags. Without thinking about it, I get up and grab the bag. She shouldn’t be carrying heavy stuff right now. Her eyes widen when I step inside her door and ask, “Where do you want this?”
“Where I left it! What are you doing?”
It’s going to be a long nine months if she’s going to keep asking me that. “It’s heavy. Where do you want it?”
“Under the cabinet.” She opens the cabinet doors and Woody comes barreling around the corner, yapping and hopping around. He freezes as soon as he sees me and growls. Little bastard.
I put the dog food away and head back outside without another word. She doesn’t come back out of the house again, and no cops show up, so I guess she’s going to let me finish the steps.