The Good Neighbor by A. J. Banner

objects—stapler, flashlight, pens—before I glimpsed the edge of an envelope sticking out from beneath a warped metal shelf.
    I retrieved the envelope and pulled out a set of singed photographs depicting rivers, beaches, Mount Rainier—and one of Johnny sitting on a dock in swimming trunks, dangling his feet in a lake, a forest in the background. A ramshackle fisherman’s hut rose from the dock, the glass missing from its windows. A woman sat next to Johnny, her bare, tanned shoulder touching his, the picture ending at the black strap of her bikini.
    Johnny’s blue Speedo swimming trunks looked familiar. He’d owned them before I’d met him. He’d worn them several times since. In the picture, he looked muscular, his hair windswept, the way it was now. He didn’t look any younger than he did today, but then, the picture had been taken from a distance. The fine lines on his face were not discernible. On the back of the photo, someone had handwritten in beautiful script, For Johnny, my love.
    For a moment, I stopped breathing. The words reached up and slapped me in the face. The photograph had been taken before I’d met him. Had to have been. He’d been in love before, so what? Or at least, a woman had loved him. But of course. Johnny was irresistibly masculine, if not classically handsome. And he was smart, and loving, and thoughtful. What woman wouldn’t want him? He had a past, so what? What did I expect?
    I found many things I couldn’t remember ever seeing—a pair of reading glasses, a designer pen, a silver bracelet. In the remains of other rooms, I picked up more charred objects—a cup; a hand-painted, cracked ceramic bowl; a gold necklace. But no more photographs.
    Finally, exhausted, I returned to the car and stowed the bags in the back. As I closed the trunk, Pedra Ramirez burst out of her house and scurried down her driveway in a red linen shirt, khaki Capris, and bright red sandals. She hurried across the road. “Sarah! Díos mio. You’re never going to believe what’s happened.”

CHAPTER TEN
    Pedra rushed up and hugged me, exuding her characteristic gardenia scent. “Lo que es una tragedia.” She shook her head, her hoop earrings glinting in the sunlight. “First the fire, and now . . .”
    “Now what? What’s going on?”
    “It’s Mia,” Jessie shouted, racing outside in bare feet. She threw herself at me with abandon, embracing me in a tight, desperate hug, giving off smells of lemon shampoo and bubble gum. Her eyes were rimmed with black kohl.
    “What about Mia?” I said, pulling away. “Is she okay?”
    “I called her grandma,” Pedra said. “You know, to see how they’re doing.”
    “She got hold of the scissors,” Jessie said.
    “She what? Is she hurt?” I thought of all the hazards in a home that could harm a vulnerable child.
    “She cut off her hair,” Jessie said.
    “Kids sometimes do that,” I said.
    Pedra shook her head. “But her grandma, she is too old. She doesn’t pay attention, or she falls asleep.”
    “We’re worried,” Jessie said. “We’re about to go over there—”
    “I’ll go,” I said. “Where do they live?”
    “Ferndale Glen. I can give you the address.” Jessie copied the address from her cell phone to mine. Her dangling copper leaf earrings shone in the light. Something nagged at me about her, but I couldn’t figure out what.
    “Don’t say I told you,” she said, stepping away from me and biting her lip. “You know, about her hair.”
    “Don’t worry,” I said. “My lips are sealed.”
    As I drove up the road, I passed Adrian’s black Buick on its way to Jessie’s house. Had I heard his car that night? Impossible to know for sure. As we passed each other, he looked at me through his open window. He was powerfully built, his long hair tied back. His eyes were devoid of expression. Almost creepy. I pressed the accelerator, hit the speaker button on my cell phone and the speed dial for Johnny. He answered almost