The day was just settling into evening when Rody Lamoree returned home, his steps slow and weary. The streetlights were beginning to flicker on, casting soft yellow halos against the encroaching darkness. The air was crisp with the chill of early winter, and the scent of burning wood lingered in the atmosphere. Rody, in his mid-thirties, with his strong, broad shoulders slightly slumped from the day's work, glanced around his quiet neighborhood as he approached his home. The small house he shared with his wife, Manon, was nestled at the corner of the street, a cozy place that once buzzed with warmth and love.
But now, it was silent.
It had been nearly a week since Manon disappeared. She had gone out for groceries and never returned. Rody had scoured the city, the police had searched, but there was no trace of her. No sign of struggle, no clues, just the empty absence of the woman he loved.
Every day without her weighed on him, and he felt his hope dwindling.
As Rody approached the front door, a familiar figure emerged from the house next door. Vincent Charbonneau, a man in his mid-twenties, stepped out onto his porch with a plate in hand. Vincent's pale skin was illuminated by the warm light spilling from his doorway, his dark eyes glinting with something that Rody couldn't quite place. Vincent had always been an enigma, quiet and polite, though something about him had always unsettled Rody.
"Rody," Vincent called out softly, his voice carrying through the still evening air.
Rody paused, glancing over at him. "Vincent," he responded, forcing a small smile. "Evening."
Vincent descended the steps and walked towards him, his movements smooth and purposeful. "I thought you might be hungry. I've been experimenting with some new recipes, and I made too much, as usual." He extended the plate toward Rody. "You should try it. It's my best work yet."
Rody hesitated, his brow furrowing slightly. He wasn't particularly hungry, but Vincent's insistent gaze made it difficult to refuse. The aroma wafting from the plate was rich and savory, instantly tempting him despite his lack of appetite.
"Thanks, Vincent. You didn't have to go out of your way," Rody said, taking the plate. He glanced at the neatly arranged slices of meat, the sauce drizzled over it in an artistic swirl. Vincent was a talented chef, a fact that everyone in the neighborhood admired.
"It's no trouble," Vincent replied, a slight smile curving his lips. "I just...wanted to do something for you. I know things have been hard."
Rody looked up, meeting Vincent's gaze. For a moment, he saw something in those dark eyes-something intense, almost possessive-but it was gone as quickly as it appeared.
"Yeah," Rody muttered, lowering his eyes. "They have."
"If you ever need anything," Vincent continued, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "anything at all, Rody, I'm here. Whatever you need."
Rody nodded, feeling a strange discomfort settle in his chest. "I appreciate it, Vincent. Really."
Vincent's smile widened, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I'm glad to help." He lingered for a moment longer, his gaze sweeping over Rody's form, before turning back towards his house. "I'll see you around, Rody. Take care."
As Vincent retreated to his home, Rody watched him go, unease gnawing at him. He couldn't shake the odd feeling that had settled in his gut. Something about Vincent's behavior had changed recently, becoming more...intense.
Shaking his head, Rody dismissed the thoughts. He was exhausted, mentally and emotionally drained. The last thing he needed was to start imagining things. With a sigh, he unlocked the door to his home and stepped inside.
