The Girl Next Door Read online

  THE GIRL NEXT DOOR

  Lisa Aurello

  The Girl Next Door Copyright © 2017 by Lisa Aurello. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from the author or author’s representatives. Please respect the hard work of this author by purchasing and/or reading only authorized editions.

  Cover design by Indianboy

  Print edition formatting by Madhatcovers.com

  This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. References may be herein contained to historical events and/or authentic locations; however, the names, characters, incidents, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner.

  A woman with good shoes is never ugly

  ~ Coco Chanel

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Late September

  In the last minute of her life, Cate Caldwell was thinking about donuts and high heels. Donuts because she’d been goaded into eating a piece of a maple-glazed Cronut and now she felt bloated from all that grease and sugar. High heels because she was in love with her new Saffiano leather pumps.

  There were other things drifting through her mind as she got off the Metro-North train. The upcoming all-breed show in Florida the following week for one. Cate had high hopes about their prospects. If they could take a ribbon in Miami or even just win another major in the hound division, Harper, her lovely Afghan bitch, would be an AKC champion for her second Westminster. Cate and her mother knew dog flesh, and they spotted a winner in Harper while she was still nestled with her chubby littermates.

  Plus, it was decision time for window treatments for the front of their newly acquired English mews house or she wouldn’t have them in time for the holidays. She’d narrowed it down to the plantation shutters or the white-on-white linen Roman shades.

  A little over an hour ago her husband, Mason, had texted, reminding her to pick up his dry cleaning—he wanted to wear his navy Armani to the ballet the next evening, and he was out of town until midday tomorrow. She’d be in the city all the next day, so she needed to get the suit tonight. Cate was rushing because she left the office late today and the dry cleaner closed at seven. It was now 6:39.

  Walking briskly through the commuter parking lot toward her car, Cate was distracted by her thoughts and paid no heed to what was going on around her. Though her silver M4 was in sight, her eyes were riveted on her textured leather shoes. Prada makes perfect.

  From a parked car came a single muffled report. The kill shot was fired out of the Sig Sauer P226 with deadly efficiency. It hit Cate squarely in her left temple, the hollow point expanding on impact and pureeing her brain as efficiently as a Ninja Master. Though it took only seconds, the kinetic ballet of the bullet as it disrupted synapses, shattered bone into lethal shards, and blasted its way into the cerebral cortex caused massive tissue damage, all while the victim was still upright. She was dead before she face-planted into the concrete, breaking her perfect nose to pile on to the other indignities wreaked upon her supermodel-like face and body.

  Cate had no time to see her own end coming, no time to effect a transition, not even a fleeting moment to consider who delivered her this fate. If she had, she could probably figure it out quickly. But Cate didn’t even have quickly. She jumped from one moment of cognitive clarity to the next of dead as a doornail.

  When she fell, the momentum of gravity sent one shoe flying off her foot, and it landed in the middle of the sidewalk, sitting jauntily cocked and waiting to greet returning commuters. It was to their misfortune that it wasn’t the only thing that was awaiting their witness.

  Though it was dark out, and people were rushing to their cars, eager to get home after a long day, Cate’s death stood inconveniently in their way. Because a silencer was used, bystanders merely saw a woman drop to the ground. It was only when they got near enough to her that they were able to see that half her head was destroyed. One brave but misguided commuter crouched down and half-turned the body to ensure she was beyond human help: one arctic-blue eye stared back at him; the other one was distorted from internal pressures.

  “Don’t touch her,” a woman yelled at him.

  The man got to his feet. “I had to check to see if she needed first aid. She doesn’t,” he added in a quiet voice.

  Several people called 911 from their cells, pleading for an ambulance. By then the killer was already driving away from the crime scene, late to meet someone for dinner.

  Twenty-nine days earlier (late August)

  The car door swung closed with a muted thud. After a casual glance around the lot, the man pointed the key fob at the vehicle and locked it. Noting that the car parked immediately next to his was the same make, model, and color made him smirk. Yet another one was parked a few cars down. Turning, he adjusted his tie and sauntered toward the entrance to the restaurant, his eyes continually scouring his surroundings. If he noticed anyone he knew even in passing, he’d abort and leave the premises.

  The old trope said the best way to hide was in plain sight so he tried to blend into the background: he wore a navy suit, his dark brown hair was neatly combed back, and he wore a bandage over the tattoo on his middle finger. He kept quiet, avoided eye contact, and left his Porsche back at the office, instead taking his assistant’s four-year-old silver Honda.

  His problem was that people tended to notice him. His natural good looks combined with a body he earned with obsessive dedication to weights and running kept attention, especially of the female variety, coming his way. True, his looks served him well in multiple ways, but in others they were a huge pain in the tit.

  Glancing at his phone, he saw he was early. Once inside Rasputin’s Inn, he scoped out a secluded table in the rear of the dimly lit dining room, away from any windows. Pointing with his chin, he politely asked the hostess—the one who approached him so quickly she teetered on her high heels—“May I have that corner table?”

  Greedy eyes roamed him up and down, accompanied by a covetous smile. Or more accurately, a leer. “Of course, sir. Follow me.”

  Trailing behind her, he could tell she was swaying her ass more than was natural. Even though he was used to women flirting with him, today he found it irritating. He was trying to fly under the radar, for fuck’s sake.

  The table was cloistered from the view of most of the other tables yet positioned so that he could still watch for her entrance. “Thank you,” he told the hostess. She st
epped aside slightly to allow him to sit, but he had to wedge past her to do so—her obvious intention. She probably didn’t see his eye-roll at her pathetic ploy. Lately, he had even less patience than usual for aggressive women.

  “I’ll send a waiter over to take your order.” Her smile stretched wide, revealing a scarlet lipstick smear on her right front tooth.

  After a curt nod at her, he sat back and picked up the menu, but his eyes were on the room. Scanning left to right, he made sure there weren’t any familiar faces. Someday soon they’d be able to do away with this covert shit, these clandestine restaurant meetings, but not yet. Patience was requisite and happened to be one virtue he had in abundance.

  The cafe was alive with the din of chatter and boisterous laughter as diners streamed in and out in even exchange. Crowded and noisy suited their purpose.

  About five minutes later, she appeared in the doorway. As soon as she walked inside, he recognized her. Since it was easier for her to disguise herself, they’d agreed she’d be the one to do it. Sporting a wig and sunglasses, she was incognito, but it didn’t matter what she wore—not to him. He knew her in and out: her gait, her body, and her posture. He knew her in other ways too. He knew her, in fact, down to her DNA.

  Patient as always, he watched as she slid her sunglasses down her nose and her eyes panned the intimate interior. He held up a finger, and as her gaze zeroed in on him on the second pass, her expression changed, and she began to thread her way toward him. He stood as she kissed his cheek in greeting before they sat down across from each other. Their close proximity allowed him to stare into her eyes—he needed her to believe that he thought her a goddess.

  “So?” she placed her shades on the table and looked at him. Her eyes held a glint of what he interpreted as nervous anticipation. His probably did too.

  He tried to smile. “It’s zero hour. We need to do this or kill it.”

  “So to speak. It could go bad,” she whispered.

  “It could,” he agreed, maintaining his neutral expression. “We could move to plan B instead. Just take off.”

  “We could… but… why should we?”

  He said nothing, studying her face. She wore a solemn expression but her eyes reflected her characteristic resolve. In fact, her entire demeanor evinced her purpose: brows pinched, hands folded, spine oaken. The woman knew what she wanted.

  “After what she’s done…”

  Reaching across the table, he covered her hand with his own, trying to convey affection. “I know. I just want you to understand that if we go ahead with it… it could all go south on us—you’re right about that. We’re aiming for a big win. The bigger the reward, the greater the risk.”

  She laughed quietly. “I wonder how many times you’ve said that to me in the last few months.

  Now he chuckled. “More than once, I’m guessing?” Head down, his eyes fixed on the table. “I just want to make sure you fully comprehend what the risks are going in—”

  “No, I get it,” she interrupted as his eyes rolled up to hers. “I do. I know the risks… it’s going to be so difficult for a while…” She swallowed hard and he could see the muscles in her throat contract. “Even so, I think we should go for it. Starting all over would be a bitch… and then there’s the payback. I want it too.”

  “That’s important to you, I know.”

  Her face went slack. Leaning back in her chair, she crossed her leg under the table, bumping his knee. “Why isn’t it to you?” Her tone had crisped from a few moments ago.

  Sliding his tongue over his front teeth, he tilted his head, taking a moment to check her out from head to heels. The heels alone made him hard. An erotic image popped into his head: drilling her from behind when she had nothing else on but those shiny black stilettos—every man’s fuck fantasy. “It is,” he insisted as he expelled the breath he’d been holding. “So it’s a go—win or lose. Hopefully, we’ll get the win.”

  She smiled and nodded, reaching for her glass of water.

  Decision made. They’d waited long enough. One bitch would be dead before the next month was out.

  The other one would take the fall.

  Chapter 1

  Dutchess County border, NY, September 10th

  “Pyscho killer, qu’est-ce que c’est, fa fa fa fa fa fa fa…”

  Jane squealed, cranking up the volume of the car stereo to duet with the Talking Heads. The sinister sky was about to rip open and deliver its wrath, but she wasn’t paying too much attention to the impending storm. She was busy feeling good.

  Cool relief sluiced through her bloodstream like a fast-working sedative now that the dreaded meeting was finally over, and she was on her way back to the city. After so much time, she finally felt calm and even slightly giddy now that it was behind her. The looming prospect of today’s appointment had been stressing her out for weeks, and her anxiety level had steadily climbed to the point of physical illness: nausea, headaches, and a rash on her forearm that might or might not be poison ivy. While getting dressed this morning, she’d noticed that her nails were chewed down to ragged nubs—an icky habit she’d managed to break years ago.

  Bright-siding all of that agita was that she lost another five pounds because of it. The size-ten formfitting charcoal sheath dress she’d purchased last month was actually a little loose on her today. For a former fat girl, size ten was a triumph in and of itself, but Jane was still shedding weight. With every pound gone, she felt more empowered and in control of her own fate.

  As she cruised around the bends of the scenic roadway, she thought with a measure of disbelief about the turns her life had been taking—one-eighty pivots in almost every facet of it. At twenty-five, she was an efficiency expert wunderkind and up-and-coming it girl. Well, that was the joke since she worked in IT. Everyone called her and Melanie the MT it girls.

  But old habits die hard, and no sooner had she acknowledged her cautious optimism than the usual doubts and self-loathing crawled back in like scurrying cockroaches when a light is flipped on—feelings she endlessly recycled from the landfill of her personal despair. He was the reason for it all: both her fragile hopes and disbelief that anyone could appreciate her, much less a man like him. Jane wasn’t stupid: she knew she was unlovable and had known it ever since kindergarten—maybe even before that. Maybe the self-knowledge had germinated in utero with the first cell divisions. Probably.

  Useless. That’s what her mother used to call her. Her father preferred pigheaded.

  It was much more than about looks, though that was important. When Jane was in high school, her mother used to nag at her to wear some makeup or maybe consider more fashionable clothing. In her high-pitched voice, she’d badger her daughter relentlessly: Jane, you could be passably pretty with a little damn effort. Maybe you can try a shorter skirt? You could get away with it if you borrow my high heels—they will make your legs look less heavy. How about wearing a little makeup today? God forbid, you try to look nice. I got a new lipstick shade that might possibly work on you. Give it a try, why don’t you?

  Jane wanted to fight back at her critical mother with one of the few talents she possessed—her extensive repertoire of word missiles—but bit her tongue till it bled out the salt in her, keeping the insults from flying from her mouth like RPGs.

  Maybe she could look better, but Jane felt it was important to display on the outside the way she felt on the inside. Disguising her congenital hideousness behind makeup and clothes seemed patently dishonest.

  Jane’s shortcomings included major personality deficits as well. She recognized it and had long ago come to terms with it. Though she had a wry sense of humor, it was often misunderstood by others. Patience was also something Jane found in short supply in herself.

  Honesty, though. That was crucially important to her—one of the few attributes Jane both respected and possessed. And she was brutally honest about herself. Looking at her own reflection used to fill her with cold dread and bolster her self-hatred, yes, but it was libera
ting at the same time. She didn’t have to worry about losing popularity over some imagined high school infraction because she never had it to begin with. An author Jane read in high school, Zora Neale Hurston, said it best: the game of keeping what one has is never so exciting as the game of getting. Not that Jane ever tried to get it, nor did she even consider the possibility, but she could recognize the authenticity of the sentiment. Not only is it not exciting to try to keep what you have, but it also must be massively stressful.

  The clique girls had to deal with such bullshit high-school drama on a daily basis. Jane didn’t.

  She also didn’t have to worry about what she was going to wear every day because it didn’t matter. Jane was plain and overweight, yeah, but she embraced it, instead spending her energy on honing her sarcasm and wit into something as sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel. Those glossy, popular girls at school with perfect bodies were like an alien species to her, one that she couldn’t even entertain the notion of belonging to, but in some ways, she actually felt sorry for them. The strain of keeping up their pretenses must have been almost unendurable because Jane was pretty sure that underneath all that makeup and fashion were other ugly girls.

  Lately, though, things had begun to change for Jane, both outer and inner alterations. Today, wearing the new dress that she hadn’t yet dared to wear to work, her hair styled in soft waves, and light makeup meticulously applied, she was actually pleased instead of horrified when she took a peek in the mirror. It inoculated her with a small burst of confidence, a word that wasn’t listed in her personal dictionary until very recently. She smiled again, thinking of the main reason for her surge of self-esteem and the reason she was going to all of this trouble.

  Scanning the sky through her Subaru’s windshield, she decided she would probably just beat the monster storm bearing down on New York City. Her gray suede pump pressed a little harder on the accelerator as one of her favorite Radiohead songs came on the radio.