The Light Between Us Box Set

A Light in the DarkTo my husband Paul. Thanks for your support. I could not have done this without you. I head to the kitchen for a third refill of Earl Grey. Through the window above the sink, I stare out into a bare October morning and glimpse Darth Vader, my neighbor’s grey and white Huskie, thirty feet from me over the well-tended hedge separating our yards. He yanks at the end of his too-short leash as though he is playing tug-of-war with himself, trying to get free from the metal porch railing. My lips curve into a snarl at the ungodly sight. Some people should not be allowed to have pets. Bret Hicks, the dog’s owner, is a seventeen-year-old high school dropout who lives with his mother and hosts drinking parties at his house on weekends when his mother is out of town. Which is the case now. I watch as the gangly boy steps out onto the stoop of their porch, shirtless, and readjusts himself in broad daylight. I wait to see how Bret handles the situation with Darth. One finger on the dog and I am out the door. I watch. Wait. It is like trying to stay awake during a tedious scene in a B-rated movie. I fill my cup to the rim with lukewarm tea from the kettle and turn to go back to my computer when I hear Bret’s grating voice drowning out Darth’s barking. I poke my head around the hanging spider plant in the window and am crippled at the ruthless act of cruelty playing itself out across the way. Bret is slapping the dog across his face to quiet him. My anger simmers as I clutch the teakettle hard enough so my knuckles turn white. I feel woozy, and I lose the grip on both my mug and kettle. Everything crashes into the sink, the dregs of my tea splashing on my face and arms. I fly out of my back door, and by the time I reach the frozen ground, I am yelling obscenities. “Bret Hicks! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I call Bret by his first name because we have known each other for years. At the edge of the hedgerow, my palms are slick with sweat. “What do you think you’re doing to that poor dog, Bret?” Bret turns away from Darth and looks up at me with his spooky-empty eyes, grinning mischievously. He answers me with a flip of his middle finger. “Mind your own frickin’ business!” Even in the chilly air, heat crawls up my neck. Behind the shrubbery, I clench and unclench my fists. In a tight-throated response, I say, “Bret Hicks, if you don’t stop hitting that dog, I’m going to report this to the sheriff!” I hear Darth whining at his master’s feet. With adolescent arrogance, Bret scoffs, “Sheriff Erickson is just another stupid pig.” And he flips me the finger again before unleashing Darth from his chain, and pulling the defenseless animal up the stairs by his side. Before Bret slips behind the door with his dog, I hear the troubled teenager mumble, “Faggot.” He slams the back door hard enough that I step back a few inches. I tug at the collar of my bathrobe against the spitting cold and race along the yard to the safety of my house. * * * * The rest of the morning is uneventful. No more noises from Bret or Darth. No barking or screaming. Hearing the dog’s woof would set my frayed nerves at ease, but all is unnervingly quiet. The stillness unsettles me. I check the Hicks’ backyard from my kitchen window: dead calm. I go back to my writing, trying to wrap my head around something more pleasant, my hands flying across the keyboard as if inspiration suddenly beckons me to write my one thousand words. I even manage to produce twice as much before lunch. By then, my mind is tapioca. I cannot string any more words together if my life depended on it. Will I ever be able to write another bestseller? * * * * Later in the day, I busy myself with the house chores I’ve let go by the wayside all week: dusting, vacuuming, laundry. At two, I take my customary half hour nap. I am restless and anxious, staring up at the cream-colored ceiling in my bedroom, my mind racked over Darth Vader’s unfortunate living conditions. The vision of Russ, my ex-boyfriend, invades the basement of my brain: the way he used to smile at me with his lopsided grin and cocksure manner triggers my heartstrings. I turn to the bay window across the room and gaze out. The sky crackles with thunder. A feverish wind slams against the shutters. Dime-sized balls of sleet peck the panes. Calm before the storm. Unable to find comfort in my favorite place in the house, I crawl out of bed and pad downstairs. Against the mounting pains in my stomach, I toss together a tuna fish salad and sit down to the kitchen table to eat, alone. My thoughts drift into the past, and I recall Russ’ face. An anesthesiologist. Around-the-clock workaholic. Two loving years of our lives tested against an ambitious career—the knife in our relationship, a year and a half ago. I slowly close my eyes and see his aquarium-blues staring back at me over the miles separating us. Tears prick the corners of my eyes. I stare around the eerily quiet house. I stab a leaf of lettuce with my fork but I am no longer hungry. The fork clatters against the side of the bowl. My body starts to shake, my shoulders slouch, and my head falls as I cry into my hands. * * * * Later in the day, after a short siesta and another cup of tea, I venture back to my computer and the fantasy world of crime fiction. I work for two hours, writing three more pages of my new novel, untitled at the present time, when the sound of a dog barking jars my reverie. A surge of fear pulses through me. I pull my hands away from the keys and sit back, listening. I cross my arms over my chest. Darth Vader barks. But the bark turns to snarls. And then someone screams. I don’t notice the growing darkness outside until I peek out the window to where Bret Hicks and a handful of his high school chums hover over Darth in the backyard, teasing the beast with chicken scraps. The five young boys gulp beer from bottles and suck on a joint, passing it among themselves, laughing. Country music blares from an opened window in one of the boys’ pickup trucks parked under the elm tree. I recoil at the sight of the helpless animal and fury seethes in me as I reach for my cell phone. In the mouthpiece I ask Cora, the sixty-five-year-old receptionist who’d been a staple at the sheriff’s office for thirty-one faithful years, “May I speak with Sheriff Erickson, please?” In her throaty voice, from years of smoking cigarettes, she says, “Sheriff Erickson’s out on a call, Christian. May I give him a message for you?” For a second, I think about it but then recall Sheriff Erickson giving me his private cell number a year ago when a slew of burglaries swept through our postage-sized town and a few personal belongings were stolen from my car. “When do you expect him back in the office?” I ask. “Hard to tell. Mrs. Worthington’s cat climbed that big old juniper tree in her backyard chasing after a squirrel and got stuck up on a high branch.” “I’ll give him a ring.” Before I have a chance to end the call, Cora asks, “Are you writing another book, Christian? You know, I liked your last one. I love crime novels.” I suppress the laugh erupting in the back of my throat. “You’re my number one fan, Cora. I appreciate it.” She guffaws and I see her waving a dismissive hand at me on the other end of the line. “Please. You’re a national bestseller. And rightly so. What with all those vivid descriptions of crime scenes and dead bodies, you make it sound so real—” “Thanks again, Cora. And I’ll give Sheriff Erickson a call.” With that, we disconnect. The barking next door continues. Like nails across a chalkboard, the agitated whine of Darth makes the hairs on my arms stand up. I rummage in the kitchen drawer for Sheriff Erickson’s cell number and find the scrap of paper underneath index cards on which I’ve scribbled scads of notes for my writing over the years. I punch the sheriff’s number into my phone. After five rings, a breathless voice answers. “Sheriff Erickson.” Weak-kneed, I mumble, “Um, Sheriff Erickson, this is Christian Rivers.” After a ten-second pause, when I think the line has been disconnected, the sheriff answers with a celebratory exhale, “Some nights are better than others.” The husky cadence in his voice rouses something mischievous in me. The smile in my voice reflects it. “I’m having neighbor problems.” “The Hicks’ boy again?” “Afraid so.” I hear him sigh as if my call is the sound of the world ending. “What’s the problem?” “Loud music, drugs, and animal abuse.” That is all I need to say. Sheriff Erickson answers, “Up to no good again, huh?” “I am up to my you-know-what with that snarky kid, sheriff. It is unlike Bret to hit his dog, but I can’t sit back and do nothing.” “I hear ya. I’ve adopted a new pooch this weekend.” Man’s best friend. “What breed?” I ask. “She’s just a mutt. Cute as hell, though. I was tired of coming home to an empty house.” I swallow hard and look around the uncomfortable silence of my once cozy home. Suddenly a clap of thunder rumbles somewhere far off. Pellets of sleet blast the windows as if Milestone County is under attack. Then over the deafening clatter, I hear my name being called as if it is an echo in a dream. “Christian?” “Yes. Sorry. I got sidetracked.” “I’ll be at the Hicks’s place in less than ten minutes.” * * * * The knock on my front door comes twenty minutes later, after I hear the police cruiser crunching over my gravel driveway. I dash to the door from where I’ve been sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for the sheriff to arrive. In my haste, I nearly stumble over the edge of the old worn Oriental rug Russ bought me for our first anniversary. My fingers fumble along the deadbolt as if opening a door is new to me, and I unlock it to find Sheriff Erickson standing on my threshold, his muddy brown eyes heavy with exhaustion. The jack o’ lantern burns brightly behind him on the railing of my porch. He looks as dog-tired as I feel, but he tosses me a wink anyway. The specks of grey hair at his temples make him look distinguished. He smiles weakly. My knees feel like Jell-O beneath me. My grip on the doorknob is sweaty. Staring at the handsome six-foot man in uniform in front of me, I forget my reason for calling him. I look up at the smoky stark sky. Rain whips around us in the doorway. “You better come inside, sheriff.” Stepping over the threshold into my foyer, I catch a whiff of his woodsy male scent. I’d like to bottle it. But I keep my ideas to myself. “Smells good in here,” he says. “Whatcha cookin’?” “Mexican leftovers.” I motion him down the hall in front of me so I can take a peek at his muscular backside. He has been to the gym more than once this week, I surmise. The architecture of his upper body beneath his skin-tight uniform is attractive. I’m instantly aroused, stiffening up in the right places at the wrong time. As we stroll through different rooms toward the kitchen, he jokes, “This is a lot of house for just one person.” His eyes sweep the framed photos of Russ and me on the mantelpiece. Years of memories: Sunday picnics in the park, baseball games on holiday, and weekend car rides through the Adirondacks. Something in the sheriff’s calming tone tells me it is anything but a joking remark. I want to point out to him that it is difficult for me to move away from the wonderful two years I spent here with Russ. But again, I keep my inner ramblings to myself. Instead, I say, “It suits me.” I hurry to the arc of the airy kitchen, and ask, trying to change the subject, “What have you learned about next door?”