Murder Thy Neighbour - James Patterson Page 0,1

hear from either Mr. Kirk or Ms. Hoover. We’ll be in recess until we hear something.”

With that, she smacks her gavel down on its block, and the bailiff once again says, “All rise!”

Judge Moreno walks back to her chambers with a sinking feeling. She can’t explain it, but she feels certain the courtroom will not be called back to order today.

CHAPTER 2

Ten months earlier

AS ANN HOOVER’S FINGERS dance over the keys of her Steinway piano, the notes of Chopin’s Piano Sonata No. 2 float through her home. The hardwood floors and decorative brick walls make for good acoustics, one of the many things she loves about her house, where she’s lived for the past decade.

She takes a break from playing, plucking her half-full wineglass off the smooth surface of the piano, and walks down the hall to the front of the house, then steps out on the porch to enjoy the sunset. The humidity of the day seems to be breaking, and the temperature isn’t quite as suffocating as it’s been. The warm glow of dusk fills the neighborhood.

Ann watches a teenage girl walking a dog, a man pedaling by on a bicycle, and a couple taking a stroll together, sharing an ice cream cone they bought down the street.

Ann loves this neighborhood.

The houses are affordable because most of them need some work. That was the case with hers. After she bought it, she had to put some serious effort into repairing it. As a capable single woman in her midthirties at the time, she did a little bit of the work herself—patching drywall, painting, even installing tile in the bathroom—but mainly she relied on friends or hired contractors to do the work. She learned a lot about what it takes to restore and maintain a house like this. It wasn’t easy, but she loves the results.

The house is two stories tall, with additional space in the basement, and she’s renovated and decorated it to be exactly the way she wants it.

There’s only one thing she doesn’t like about the house.

It’s also the only thing she doesn’t like about the neighborhood.

The house next door.

Ann’s home is a row house, meaning it’s half of a single building. When she purchased her property, it didn’t look much different from the one next door. But there haven’t been any buyers interested in the other side, which has continued to fall into disrepair. The FOR SALE sign sitting out front is hardly visible from all the weeds growing in front of it.

The house itself looks unappealing. Paint is flaking off all the exterior siding. The roof is full of bald spots where shingles have blown off in windstorms. The wooden supports holding the porch are rotten. Bricks have come loose from the foundation.

Just standing next to the place is spoiling her mood.

She takes her glass and heads back inside. She debates whether to crack open a new bottle and decides to indulge herself. She heads to the basement, where she keeps a small wine cabinet.

The wooden steps creak underfoot as she descends, and the temperature drops ten degrees, like she’s walking into a cave. The basement is dark, with cobwebs hiding in the exposed floor joists above her. She hurries across the concrete floor to the cabinet, which abuts the brick foundation wall her home shares with the neighboring property. She plucks out a bottle of cabernet and heads back upstairs.

At the top of the stairs, she glances at a series of signatures written in permanent magic marker adorning the basement door. These were all the friends who helped her renovate the house after she bought it—she’d asked them to sign the door when she’d hosted a housewarming party after the work was finally finished.

After she pours herself a new glass, Ann walks back to the piano and sits down, her fingers poised over the keys. She takes a deep breath.

But as she’s about to play the first notes, she stops herself. She cocks her head. Did she hear something?

She rises from her seat and heads back to the front door. She peeks out the sidelight and sees that a truck has pulled up in front of the neighboring property. A young man, probably in his midtwenties, is unloading tools from the truck bed.

She can’t believe it.

She steps out onto the front porch as the man comes up the walk, holding a circular power saw in one hand and an extension cord in the other.

“Excuse me,” she says. “Are you from the realtor’s office?”

She’s