Rachel Alexander 05 - The Wrong Dog

the town house to which it belonged, a house on West Fourth Street. All the tall windows were dark. Except one. Perhaps someone was reading late into the night. Or had eaten something that didn’t sit well.
    From the roof, I could see the entrance to the back cottage that abutted Sophie’s yard. It was on the side of the building, at the end of a flagstone path from the back door of the main house. Perhaps a guest house. Or an office. But dark now. No one in it. Or no one awake.
    The houses to the left and right of Sophie’s building had oblique visual access to the garden, too, and anyone who cared to could have heard any or all of Sophie’s conversations. But they wouldn’t be able to see her when she was inside. Only the houses on Fourth Street had that view, the one directly behind this one, and the ones to the left and right of it. From the upper floors, you’d be able to see most of the garden and all of the apartment.
    The house on the right was dark. As I watched, a light came on in one of the upper rooms in the house on the left.
    Kneeling on the roof, Dashiell pressing against my side, I remembered an incident that had happened right after I’d split up with Jack. I’d just moved into the cottage, thinking I was the luckiest person in the world, the way Sophie felt when she finally got her garden. The Siegals were leaving for France and I had the whole place to myself, no one looking into my garden from the main house. Then the calls started, always late at night, always after I’d turned off the light and gone to sleep.
    When I finally walked over to the precinct, the cops confirmed what I’d been thinking, that whoever was calling hadn’t picked my name at random from the telephone book. Whoever it was could see into the garden. Whoever it was, the detective told me, could see me and liked what he saw.
    But for what purpose? I’d asked.
    Ma’am?he’d said.
    You said he liked what he saw. But for what? He’s not asking me on a date. He’s trying to scare the hell out of me. And you know something, he’s succeeding.
    He’d nodded.
    I’d waited.
    That’s correct, he’d told me. What he’s after is to scare you, to dominate you in this way so that he can feel in control, because this person, in his day-to-day life, he’s a loser, he’s impotent, he can’t control a thing. But when he hears fear in your voice, it makes him feel like a man. And he likes that feeling.
    And you can do what about this? I’d asked.
    You can make a date with him. We can try to be there.
    Only try, Detective? I’d asked. I’d told him no thanks, I’d take care of it myself.
    That night, I’d lay awake in the dark, waiting. I wanted to be alert when the call came, not sleepy and vulnerable.
    Do you know who this is? he’d asked. After the first time, he’d always started out that way.
    Yeah, asshole, I’d said, I do. And hung up on him.
    He’d never called back, but I’d never found out where he was that he could see into my garden, where he could see the windows of the cottage and know when I’d shut off the lights. I never found out where he was, waiting an hour after the lights were off, until he was sure I was asleep, making sure that the jarring sound of the telephone would begin the work his voice would continue.
    After a few weeks, I was able to stop leaving the light on in my office when I went to bed, end of story.
    Whoever was watching Sophie had been far more persistent. And continued to be so. More important, he wasn’t just a pathetic creep trying to feel like a big man by scaring strange women in the middle of the night from the safety of his own home and his anonymity. He was a murderer. And he was still out there stalking.
    I waited until all the lights were out, all the windows dark, then duck-walked back a foot before standing up. Sitting on the top step, my back against the door, I put on my shoes and followed Dashiell back down to Sophie’s.

Chapter 24
    I Bent My Head to Listen

    Dashiell knew something needed his attention before I did. When we got to the third-floor landing, he stopped, sneezed, and tested the air. Then he ran on ahead, not stopping and turning to see if I was following.
    I ran, too. Going down the last flight, I could see the light spilling into the hallway. Sophie’s door was wide open and Dashiell was nowhere in sight.
    Was it Joe, back with a more effective weapon? Why had I thought he’d just go home and go to bed? Why had I been so careless?
    Holding