The Guy Next Door

The smell of fresh-cut grass drifted through the warm summer air, mixing with something sweeter — Mrs. Walker’s legendary apple pie cooling on the windowsill. Classic suburbia. Quiet streets, trimmed hedges, happy families. Nothing ever really happened here.

Alex watched it all from his living room window. Same scene, different day. Kids on scooters. Sprinklers are misting across lawns. Sparky, the golden retriever, was chasing butterflies like his life depended on it. The Walkers, with their matching lawn chairs and lemonade smiles, looked like they belonged in a commercial for happiness.

Alex didn’t.

He wasn’t like them. Never had been. He smiled when he had to. Waved when it was expected. Kept his lawn neat, his car clean, and his secrets locked up tight. No one in that neighborhood — not even nosy Mrs. Carmichael from across the street — suspected a thing.

They didn’t know who he really was.

They didn’t know that the mild-mannered guy who waved every morning was, in fact, a killer. Not in some metaphorical, “he kills with his charm” kind of way. No — actual killer. Calculated. Cold. Careful. He didn’t slip up. That’s why he was still around.

But that didn’t mean the Walkers didn’t get under his skin. They were too nice. Mr. Walker with his never-ending “Howdy, neighbor!” and that corny little salute. Mrs. Walker with her pies and garden talk. The kids are always drawing chalk suns on the driveway. He wanted to hate them.

But something about them made him pause. Made him… watch.

That night, everything changed.

Tires squealed. A car slammed to a stop in front of the Walkers’ house. The street, usually soaked in porch lights and bedtime lullabies, went dead quiet. Alex, half-asleep in his armchair, snapped to attention. Three guys got out. Masks. Crowbars. Intentions were written all over their twitchy movements.

He moved to the window, heart pounding, and stared as the men crept up to the front door. Then — CRASH. The door gave in. Screams.

He stood frozen, thoughts spinning. This wasn’t his mess. Let them handle it. Call the cops? Wait it out?

But then something unexpected happened. He cared. Not about justice or heroism. Not really. But if anything happened to the Walkers, it would bring police, questions, attention — the kind of spotlight he couldn’t afford.

So he acted.

No hesitation. He slid through the side yard like a ghost. By the time the first intruder saw him, it was already too late. One twist — snap. The next swung wildly and got the same. Fast. Efficient. Quiet.

The last one locked eyes with him, confused. This wasn’t a dad in slippers coming to defend the neighborhood. This was something else. Something worse. He ran.

And just like that, it was over.

The Walkers stared. Bloody, shaken, still alive.

And then, silence.

Until one of the kids spoke.

“It’s you,” she whispered. “You’re that guy. From the news.”

Alex blinked. Crap.

Mrs. Walker was still holding her son, but her eyes were locked on him now — terrified, confused, broken.

“Alex… how could you?” she asked, her voice barely holding steady.

He didn’t answer at first. His brain raced. One option: clean house. No witnesses. He’d done worse.

But for some godforsaken reason, he couldn’t.

Not to them.

“I never meant to hurt you,” he muttered.

And he meant it. In some twisted way, they were the closest thing he had to… not friends, but something. Familiar faces in a world he’d carefully built out of lies.

Sirens in the distance. Getting closer.

Time was up.

He could run — he’d done it before. Fake name, new city, new life. Maybe Canada this time.

Or… he could stop running.

He looked at Mrs. Walker again. Her hands shook. So did his.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly.

Then he stepped into the street, arms raised, waiting for the flashing red and blue to come around the corner.

The man they knew as the quiet guy next door was gone. And what was left?

Well, that was the real Alex. And his time had run out