Hidden Vices by C.J. Carpenter

and sat on the couch, watching the flames jump and listening to the calming noises of the wood crackling. She poured herself a glass of wine and ate half a frozen pizza, remembering that the college years of her life were probably the most serene she’d known: no depressed mothers to tiptoe around, no murders to be solved, no romantic relationships doomed, no unexpected deaths in the family. A part of her didn’t want to be reminded of the easier days. It made the current ones nearly impossible to live with. She curled up with a comforter and within minutes was inside a power nap, more from the beer and wine than the relaxing fire.

Nine
    The man staring down on her didn’t blink an eye, as if he’d caused Megan to wake on cue and was hardly surprised when she did.
    â€œWhat the fuck!” Megan yelled before pulling her gun out from the ankle holster. She pointed and slowly moved toward the window. At first she thought a man was standing over her, but she now realized he stood on the deck leering through the window. She jumped over the coffee table with Olympic gold hurdler fashion. She knew the alarm was on, latches secure at each entrance.
    The man stood outside holding up one palm as if to say, it’s okay . There was nothing Megan could think of in that moment that felt okay, especially a stranger on the deck watching her sleep.
    â€œI work for the Macks.” His words were mouthed through the window, but the tone in his voice implied that this tedious situation of scaring the shit out of a sleeping woman was an everyday occurrence.
    â€œYeah, right!” Megan maintained a tight grip on her gun.
    â€œI’m checking on the boathouse and the bubbler.”
    â€œAt eight o’clock at night? It’s pitch black out.” Megan grabbed her cell phone, about to call 911 when the thought crossed her mind: she was the police. She couldn’t bring herself to make the call. Sheer dignity mixed with a whole lot of stubbornness.
    â€œThere are light switches in the boathouse, Psycho Sally.”
    He’s offending someone holding a gun on him? What an asshole.
    â€œCheck the binder they left you, my name is in it. Jake Norden. They told me they’d leave the renter my number if anything went wrong with the boathouse or dock. I work at the marina in the next cove over. ”
    Megan didn’t take her eyes or her gun off of him. She pulled out the binder and went to the maintenance portion. At the top of the page was, in fact, his name. She closed the folder and asked, “Do you make it a point to watch women sleep?”
    He was medium height and broadly built, or perhaps he only appeared that way with all the winter gear he was wearing.
    â€œShow me your identification.”
    He slapped his wallet against the window. “Satisfied?” His voice was gruff, as if he survived only on cigarettes alone.
    Megan inspected the unfamiliar Jersey license and reluctantly nodded. “Do what you have to do.”
    â€œTry not to shoot me. I’ll only be a few minutes.” He cupped a hand around a cigarette while lighting it, the wind blowing up against his back. He drew a deep inhale and slowly exhaled the smoke, all the while staring at Megan, moving his eyes up and down her.
    She stood and gave him an equally heavy glare.
    Once he left the deck, Megan moved closer to the window. “I do not like you, Mr. Norden,” she whispered. She watched the entire fifteen minutes as he inspected the inside of the boathouse, testing the bubbler system and the wires leading from it up into the electric sockets they plugged into.
    As he was leaving, Jake knocked twice on the side door. In a loud but not shouting voice, he said, “I’m leaving, but I’m sure you already knew that. I’ll be back in a week.”
    He moved around to the street and climbed into a truck. Megan watched as he turned the engine over and was on his way.
    Good riddance.
    Megan placed