For a dead woman, Natalie Anderson was pretty paranoid about security.
She rested her forehead against the back of the heavy wooden door. The closed, locked and completely bolted, heavy wooden door. And even though she hated herself for it, she reached down to double-check the security of the locks again.
Double-check, ha. Double-checking could be forgiven. This was more like octuple-check. And it wasn’t just this door. It was every door in the house. And every window.
And she was about to start round nine. She had to stop herself. This could go on all night if she let it; she knew that for a fact.
“Get your sticky notes, kiddo,” she muttered to herself. “Work the problem.”
She’d discovered the sticky note trick around year two of being “dead.” That if she put one of the sticky pieces of paper on each window and door after she was one hundred percent certain the locks were in place, she could finally stop checking it again. Didn’t have to worry she’d accidentally missed one. Otherwise it was hours of the same thing over and over, just to be sure.
She grabbed the knockoff sticky papers she’d gotten from a discount store and began her process. She checked every single door—again—then every single window. The little yellow squares all over the place gave her a sense of security.
Although she had to fight the instinct to check them all one more time just to be absolutely sure.
She hadn’t needed sticky notes in a while. Her tiny, threadbare apartment—not even a full studio, just a room and bathroom that was part of a garage—only had two windows and one door. That didn’t take a whole lot of stationery to make her feel safe.
Agreeing to house-sit a gorgeous beach house in Santa Barbara had seemed liked such a great idea two weeks ago. Something different. Beautiful sunsets on the beach. A place where she could get out her paints, ones she’d caved and bought when she couldn’t afford them, even though she hadn’t painted in six years. Yeah, house-sitting had seemed like such a great idea.
Olivia, a waitress friend at the bar where Natalie worked in the evenings, had talked Natalie into it. Olivia was supposed to have been doing the house-sitting, but her mother had had a stroke and she’d had to go out of town.
So here Natalie was, in a million-dollar home with a view of the Pacific, and instead of cracking the doors to hear the sounds of the ocean or getting out her paints, she had every drape pulled tight and every door battened down enough to withstand a siege. Did she really wish she was smelling the motor oil that permeated everything in her apartment on the far east side of town rather than the brisk February California night air?
She turned away from the front door and forced herself to cross to the living room and sit on the couch. Once there the exhaustion nearly overwhelmed her, settling into her bones. Seven hours at her cleaning job today, then another six washing dishes at the bar.
That was her life almost every day. Seven days a week. For nearly the past six years.
None of the jobs paid even minimum wage. But they all paid in cash, and that was what mattered. She hadn’t filled out any tax papers or had to show any ID. Because anyone who tried to pay Natalie Anderson Freihof would find out rather quickly that Mrs. Freihof died six years ago, caught in a freak shootout between law enforcement and some bank robbers.
The irony of that entire situation wasn’t lost on her. Law enforcement had come for the robbers, never knowing there was a much bigger criminal—her husband—trapped right in the lobby with all the other victims. They could’ve made the world a much safer
