Close to You Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1.

  Chapter 2.

  Chapter 3.

  Chapter 4.

  Chapter 5.

  Chapter 6.

  Chapter 7.

  Chapter 8.

  Chapter 9.

  Chapter 10.

  Chapter 11.

  Chapter 12.

  Chapter 13.

  Chapter 14.

  Chapter 15.

  Chapter 16.

  Chapter 17.

  Chapter 18.

  Chapter 19.

  Chapter 20.

  Chapter 21.

  Chapter 22.

  Chapter 23.

  Chapter 24.

  Chapter 25.

  Chapter 26.

  Chapter 27.

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29.

  Chapter 30.

  Chapter 31.

  Chapter 32.

  Chapter 33.

  Chapter 34.

  Chapter 35.

  Chapter 36.

  Contents

  Chapter 1.

  Chapter 2.

  Chapter 3.

  Chapter 4.

  Chapter 5.

  Chapter 6.

  Chapter 7.

  Chapter 8.

  Chapter 9.

  Chapter 10.

  Chapter 11.

  Chapter 12.

  Chapter 13.

  Chapter 14.

  Chapter 15.

  Chapter 16.

  Chapter 17.

  Chapter 18.

  Chapter 19.

  Chapter 20.

  Chapter 21.

  Chapter 22.

  Chapter 23.

  Chapter 24.

  Chapter 25.

  Chapter 26.

  Chapter 27.

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29.

  Chapter 30.

  Chapter 31.

  Chapter 32.

  Chapter 33.

  Chapter 34.

  Chapter 35.

  Chapter 36.

  Epilogue.

  Close to You Copyright © 2018 B. M. Sandy.

  All rights reserved.

  This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means —electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover by Paper & Sage Design

  paperandsage.com

  Edited by Jordan Horvath

  “Hope is like the sun, which, as we journey toward it, casts the shadow of our burden behind us.”

  – Samuel Smiles

  Chapter 1.

  Iain

  The night was beyond cold as I sat perched on a fire escape attached to a shitty tenement, training my camera across the street. My fingers felt like blocks of ice, no longer parts of me but something else. Something vicious and cruel.

  I always agreed to the shit jobs, so here I was, like a male version of Jessica-fucking-Jones, crouched in a terrible neighborhood with a camera, freezing my ass off in the middle of the night.

  I shifted slightly in place, allowing my left shoulder to relax. Ever since my last deployment, it hasn’t felt the same.

  People were walking a hundred feet below me, no doubt talking about their shit jobs and stupid roommates, ranting about the cost of organic eggs and how unfair it was that their dads cut off their allowances. I gritted my teeth, refusing to look down to see what these assholes looked like. I needed to stay focused, to get the shots so I could get the hell out of here.

  Tuning out the sounds of the streets, I scanned the building, looking for movement in the two windows belonging to the husband I was scoping. I had uncovered his secret apartment the other day and had been squatting here for the last three nights, waiting for him.

  Becoming a private investigator wasn’t my idea of a career. I was fresh from the Army a little over four years ago, with a bum shoulder and a broken heart. I had no clue what to do with all that time I suddenly had - and boy, was time my enemy for the first six months or so. With my dad being a cop for the NYPD, I knew I didn’t want to go that route. I’d seen enough of the shit he had to deal with to know that it wasn’t for me.

  And then, one day, one of my old friends from high school called me up to welcome me back home. After all the small talk was done, he admitted to me that he and his wife were having trouble, swearing up and down that she was cheating on him, but he couldn’t prove it.

  He’d asked me, in a roundabout way, for help. In the state I was in at the time, having a little direction was exactly what I needed to do something; otherwise, I probably wouldn’t have climbed out of the hole I’d found myself in. Not long after that phone call, I was able to prove that his wife was definitely cheating on him. Solving the case had been the kick in the ass I needed, because the clients haven’t stopped.

  I froze the second I saw a shadow. A light clicked on, and a man came into view. It was the husband, removing his shirt and watch. A second figure was in the room, a woman, and I snapped a shot.

  She moved toward him, touching his bare chest. They kissed. I snapped again. He ripped her shirt off, pressing her against him. I snapped again. I zoomed in closer, able to get a good one of the expression on his face as he kissed this woman.

  He loved her, which either made all of this better or worse. After four years of doing this, I still wasn’t sure.

  In an ideal world, I would have been able to call it a night. But this wasn’t an ideal world, so I continued to snap. The wife wouldn’t be happy without full ammo, the whole deal. Something to take to the courts with mascara running down her face to show how much her heart had been broken. Something to burn to memory, something to fall back on to know that all this time, she wasn’t crazy. She was right.

  After four years, I still didn’t know why people get married. It always ended in tears, resentment, and pain.

  I was on autopilot now, snapping photos every other second, even while he was balls deep, taking his mistress from behind, pulling her hair like I was sure he never did to his wife. Why the hell she would want to see that, I really couldn’t comprehend. But she asked me for the works, and I always delivered.

  Always.

  xxx

  The sound of my phone ringing jarred me awake. My eyes snapped open and I shoved my hand under my pillow, pulling the stupid thing out and silencing it immediately. My head pounded, dull and harsh, behind my eyes.

  For a moment, I lay in bed, covering my eyes, hoping the darkness would help my head. It didn’t.

  After I had gotten home last night, I decided it would be a great idea to crack open the bottle of Jim Beam collecting dust on top of my fridge in efforts to celebrate finishing up the case.

  Or rather, that was what I had told myself at the time.

  The truth, though? I was fucking lonely. I had nobody to celebrate with, so I got drunk alone in my apartment.

  I forced myself up, squinting, the bright sun hitting me full on. I didn’t usually hit the bottle so hard, and I was paying for it. I looked down at my phone, seeing a missed call from a number not logged in my contacts and a new voicemail.

  I’d get to it later.

  Getting out of bed, I forced myself into the shower to wake myself up. The hot water steamed the room, the heat making me feel a little better. I scrubbed, letting my thoughts drift.

  Why had I let myself drink so much? Getting drunk alone wasn’t something I did a lot, but every time I did, I was repulsed with mysel
f the next day. I felt terrible now, not only mentally but physically, too. My back and neck were sore from crouching on the fire escape for so long, and my throat was dry and thick, like I’d shoved a cotton ball in it before I fell asleep.

  Forcing myself to stop wallowing, I finished up my shower and got dressed. The half-empty bottle of Jim Beam sat on the counter, and I poured the rest of it down the drain, disgusted with myself.

  I needed something to do. I thought of those photos I still needed to put in zip files and decided to tackle them before I did anything else. At the very least, the distraction would make me forget my headache.

  It was just after ten, and it would take me about an hour to filter through the photos and compress them for my client. This part of the job was definitely the most boring, but at least I wasn’t outside in the middle of the night in February, worrying about freezing my nuts off.

  I heard my phone ringing again but let it go. I was too far into the groove of getting these photos ready to care about hearing another sob story just yet. Halfway through, I brewed a pot of coffee, drinking it black.

  My head felt better already.

  xxx

  Around noon, I dug my phone out from under my comforter and checked it. Two missed calls from an out of state number. Odd, but not out of the ordinary. Sometimes my clients disguised themselves; it made them feel more secure. I also had a text message from my buddy Erik, asking if I wanted to grab a beer and watch the Knicks game this weekend. I usually said no, because I had a case, but this time I said yes.

  I listened to that voicemail.

  “Hi Iain, it’s Brandon Coffey. I know you haven’t heard from me in a while, but I was hoping you’d give me a call. I need your help.”

  He rattled off the number that was on my caller ID and the voicemail ended. What on earth could Brandon, my lieutenant from my early army days, possibly need from me? He lived in Indiana, and I hadn’t seen or heard from him in years. Last I heard, he was working for some bank in Indianapolis, living the dream.

  But I knew all too well how quickly things can change, how dreams can turn into nightmares.

  I opened my call log and went to call him back, but before my finger could get to the screen, my phone rang again. This time, it was my dad.

  “Hey, Dad. What’s up?” I turned toward the window, opening the blinds and looking at the street below, watching the traffic and people drift by.

  “Son. I haven’t heard from you in weeks.”

  His voice sounded angry, but I knew he wasn’t.

  “Well, I’m breathing.”

  “Now I can sleep tonight.”

  We both laughed, and I turned away from the window, grabbing my cold coffee.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Well…” I heard some fumbling in the background, the sound of his radio. “There’s just no real easy way to go about this. Your mom called me.”

  “Oh.”

  “She’s in a bad way, son.”

  “I see.”

  There was silence on the other line, actual silence. Not even a breath. I downed my cold coffee and set the mug down on the counter, too hard. My dad was trying to fake me out, to make me talk. But when it came to her, I had nothing to say.

  “Iain, when are you going to talk to your mother?”

  I clenched the phone. It was unlike my dad to get between us. They’d been divorced for five years, and my relationship with my mother has been strained my entire life.

  “It’s not exactly something I marked in my calendar, dad. She fucked up. She’s done nothing but fuck up my entire life.”

  More silence on the other end of the line, and I sighed.

  “She’s sorry,” he said finally. “She told me to tell you that.”

  Gritting my teeth, I shook my head, knowing he couldn’t see it.

  “I don’t care.”

  I heard his radio again, someone calling in a 10-16 somewhere in Park Slope.

  “I have to go. Gotta handle this.”

  He ended the call, and I stared at my phone for a moment, wondering how such an indifferent piece of metal and glass could make me feel so numb.

  Chapter 2.

  Michele

  My paranoia was getting the best of me.

  This morning, I had woken up abruptly, drenched in sweat, in the middle of a nightmare. In my dream, I’d been back at that house, trying to get out. The doors had disappeared. I was clawing at the windows and walls, my fingers bloody from the effort, all the while aware that he was close behind, reaching for me. I was screaming in my dream, asking for someone, anyone, to help me, searching for the strength to escape. But I couldn’t, because everything was made of concrete, even the windows, and when I felt his warm hand on my neck, I woke up.

  Now, I was so shaken, I couldn’t stop looking over my shoulder as I headed toward the drugstore. The day was gray, and heavy clouds were rolling lazily above, threatening snow. I huddled in my coat, wiggling my fingers in my gloves. I took extra care to really look at the people that walked past me. Searching for him in their faces.

  All the while, I was telling myself that it was only a dream.

  At the drugstore, I found what I was looking for. I couldn’t sleep well at night, so I finally gave in and bought the melatonin that Shannon had recommended. Its bright packaging promised a good night’s sleep and a well-rested feeling that lasted throughout the day. I put it in my basket quickly, not quite falling for it but willing to try.

  An ambulance sped down the street, sirens blazing, catching my attention. A toddler shrieked as his mother pulled him close, and two teenagers flew past the shop on skateboards, not technically allowed, but nobody stopped them. A man in a suit stared at his giant phone, fingers scrolling and scrolling. A woman with wild, curly hair passed him, talking into hers, her words muffled but her tone unmistakably angry.

  Somehow, none of this felt real, this life of mine.

  “Miss, you need help finding something?”

  Startled, I turned to look at the young cashier at the counter, staring at me with the sort of expression you normally reserve for the people shouting about Jesus in Times Square. I’d been staring out the window for at least two minutes.

  “Uh, no. I’m ready to check out.”

  I handed him cash and declined a bag, shoving the pill bottle into my purse and leaving the store. It was only about nine in the morning, and I didn’t have to be at the bar until five. I had a lot of time on my hands, which was never a good thing. Time has always been my enemy.

  On the street, a blast of cold wind hit me, stinging my eyes and making them water. I turned toward the direction of Shannon and Evan’s apartment. It was too cold for sight-seeing today.

  xxx

  “Michele, is that you?”

  I closed the apartment door behind me and locked it, ensuring the chain was in place.

  “Yeah, just me.” I made my way into the kitchen to see Shannon in the middle of cooking, apron and all, chopping up celery and onions, the sound of the knife hitting the cutting board echoing in the tiny space. Shannon’s Brooklyn apartment was adorable and stylish, but extremely cramped.

  “Where’s Evan?” I asked. Shannon’s boyfriend worked odd hours as an art consultant, and I didn’t see him much.

  “He went in already. Some up-and-coming artist is on display tonight and he wanted a head start.”

  “Good luck to him.” I shoved my gloves into my empty pockets and took my jacket off and hung it on a hook against the wall.

  “Where’d you get off to so early?” she asked when I returned. “You never venture out before noon.” She scooped her cut vegetables and dumped them into a giant stock pot on the stove.

  “To the store. I got that melatonin you kept saying I should try.”

  Shannon nodded, a small smile on her face as she continued to work. Her cheeks were slightly red, her curly brown hair barely restrained in a clip against the base of her neck. Thoughtful brown eyes landed on mine as she asked, “D
id you have another nightmare last night?”

  I blushed. I thought I’d been quiet. Having to explain yet another nightmare to Shannon was not on my list of fun things to do.

  “I - yeah, but not a bad one. Don’t worry about it.”

  “C’mon, Michele,” she pressed. “Don’t you think it’s time to see someone?”

  I shook my head. “You know that’s not possible for me right now. I can’t afford it.”

  I’d been saving since I got here four months ago. I’d opened up a checking account, the first bank account I’d had in years that was only mine. I needed to save as much money as possible so that I had plenty of it when I finally decided what my next move would be - and seeing a therapist, which would be very expensive since I didn’t have insurance, was not a priority.

  “You know I’d help,” Shannon said.

  “God - no, Shannon. I mean, thank you, of course, but I really couldn’t accept that. You’ve already done so much for me as it is.”

  She didn’t immediately reply, and I grabbed a glass from the counter, filling it with water from the tap. I took a couple of sips, hoping this conversation was over. Shannon has never been pushy about my situation, which is a miracle in itself since she barely knew why I had shown up on her doorstep. But I knew that everyone’s hospitality has a line, and even though I paid rent to live here, I couldn’t help but feel that I was bordering on it.

  “You haven’t heard from him, have you?” she asked then, almost a whisper. She was slicing carrots now, the clink of the knife against the cutting board loud and intrusive on my thoughts.

  Him. My husband.

  “No.” I set my glass down, clearing my throat. “Thank God.”

  “Do you worry that he’ll find you?”

  I froze at her question. She never asked me about him, never prodded. I tried to imagine my life before, when I was still living in his house, under his rules. I thought of my nightmare, of his hands closing around my neck.

  I was a caged bird; I was a starving bird. I looked at my left hand, the ring finger bare and pale against the countertop.