Got Your Number

comfortable, with dysfunction.
    Feeling prickly, Roxann parked in a multilevel garage, then walked two blocks before slipping between two houses. After veering right, she tramped through high grass to get to the backyard of her duplex. With one last look over her shoulder, and Capistrano's threat running through her head, she climbed the small stoop and removed her door key from her bag.
    "Hi, Roxann!"
    She nearly swallowed her tongue before she realized that Mr. Nealy was standing at the rear entrance of his side of the duplex, leaning on a broom. "Hello, Mr. Nealy."
    He doffed his plaid flop hat—which might have matched his pants if they'd been the same color. Or the same plaid. "You're home early."
    She nodded and smiled, loath to engage in a drawn-out conversation.
    "Has your roommate come back?"
    She shook her head—another land-mine subject.
    "Never liked her myself," he said.
    Not sure how to respond without encouraging more trashing of Elise, she said nothing.
    "I was thinking that since you're alone now, er, perhaps you'd like to join me for dinner tonight?"
    At the jaunty set of his chin, she realized incredulously that the old man was hitting on her. The people who had shown a love interest in her lately were a lesbian and a senior citizen.
    "Thank you, Mr. Nealy, but I can't." Even though she was hungry enough to eat his hat.
    "You know, Roxann, if you ever need anything, anything at all, you can call on me." His voice was spookily wistful. His wife had died in the flower bed a year ago, before Roxann had moved in.
    "Th-thank you, Mr. Nealy. Have a nice evening."
    He winked and disappeared into his unit. Sighing in relief, she inserted her key into the lock, surprised when the door swung open with no resistance.
    Somebody had been there.
    Objects overturned, drawers upended. She froze, her ears pricked for any sound that would indicate the intruder was still inside, but only silence greeted her. As a precaution, she reached into her gym bag and withdrew a can of pepper spray. For a split second, she considered yelling for Mr. Nealy, but then thought better—she might have to save them both. With her heart pounding, she moved toward the TV room, her weapon poised, her muscles twitching in case she had to unleash a few well-placed kickboxing moves: kneecap, groin, nose. She suddenly regretted missing class the last two weeks.
    Motives swirled through her mind. Burglary? If so, the perp would have been mightily disappointed. Apart from a broken strand of pearls, she had little worth stealing. In the living room, cushions were turned and books scattered. The TV had been tumbled, probably because the thief had been irritated to find an unimpressive nineteen-inch model with a garbage bag twistie for a knob.
    Had the person been looking for something in particular? She gingerly rounded the corner to Elise's former bedroom, which sat empty except for a box of clothes for Goodwill, now thrown helter-skelter.
    The sight of her own bedroom made her ill, the Terra-cotta Summer wall paint notwithstanding. Her closet door stood open, and clothes had been dumped on her bed. Bureau drawers hung open, the rug was upturned. From her desk, the blue monitor of the aged computer glared at her, and her initial relief that it hadn't been stolen was replaced by apprehension when she saw from the doorway that words had been typed on the screen. Only after she checked the bathroom and under the bed did she concede she was alone, and made her way back to the computer.
    I'VE GOT YOUR NUMBER, YOU FAKE.
    The blinking cursor was a silent exclamation point. She stumbled backward and fell hard on her tailbone. Warm blood oozed around her teeth from having bitten her tongue, and her mouth sang with pain. She scrambled to her feet, still staring at the screen. The words were personal, not the mischief of a random intruder.
    I've got your number.
    Was the message literal, meaning the person knew her unlisted information? Or figurative, meaning they had damning information about her? Her mind raced, sifting through the list of people who could have broken in and taken the time to leave an enigmatic calling card.
    Frank Cape? He might have tracked down her address hoping to scare her into revealing Melissa's whereabouts. In the newspaper exposé, the thwarted husband had used the word fake a half-dozen times. Those Rescue people are a bunch of fakes. Frank could have simply borrowed the wording.
    Richard Funderburk? When she and a few of