Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 94076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
“But I didn’t order this,” I insist. “There must be some mistake.”
“Maybe you didn’t, but it’s yours now.”
I stare at the food. I meant to stop for dinner, and my fridge is empty.
Maybe the restaurant has the townhouse number wrong, and the delivery is for my neighbor. I force myself to go knock on the door beside mine. In between knocks, I turn and scan the yard. I still feel like someone’s watching me, but no one’s around. No kids peering through the hedge’s dark green leaves. No neighbor with binoculars in an upstairs window.
I scrub the back of my neck and give up knocking when there’s no answer. I force myself to wait another half hour and see if anyone comes knocking on my door, looking for their dinner. Then I pull out the food.
When I remove the last container, a note flutters to the floor. Welcome to the neighborhood, it reads. It’s not signed.
Maybe this dinner is for me. But who sent it? I study the note. It’s handwritten, not typed, and on thick paper.
I’m overthinking this. I’ve spent so long as a detective I’m suspicious of everything and everyone. Events from my childhood taught me to be cautious, too.
But I am hungry, and the food looks so good. My instincts tell me it’s safe.
In the end, I devour the pasta, using the bread to mop up the extra sauce. It warms me through and brings back memories of good, home-cooked meals. The kind I haven’t had in a long, long time.
When I’m finished, exhaustion slams into me. The food weighs heavily in my sated stomach.
I drag myself to my bedroom, pick up my fallen sketchbook, and set it on the bed. I brush my teeth and change into a skimpy sleep set, the satin cooling my overheated skin.
Then I go through the routine I’ve had since the first time I got a gun. I learned long ago that the monsters who haunt little girls at night are real. And then I grew older and realized no one could protect me, so I had to protect myself.
I check the townhouse. Windows and doors: locked. Deadbolt secure. Security system: armed. My pistol is loaded, and the safety is off, so I set it on the bedside table but within reach.
If I’m lucky, these precautions will allow me to sleep deep enough that I don’t dream.
I stretch out on my bed and pull the covers up to my neck. I want to reach for my sketchbook again and trace the image of the man I drew over and over again. My mystery dom, strong and solid.
Even now, I can imagine him beside me, smelling like that delicious cologne. If I close my eyes, I can sense him.
But when I open my eyes, there’s no one there. Which is as it should be.
If life has taught me anything, it’s that everyone I’ve ever loved has died. So it’s better for me to be alone.
***
Him
I stand at the foot of her bed. My shadow falls across her, swallowing up her small form.
It’s dangerous to be here. With the tech I had installed in her place, I can watch from the comfort of my own home. But tonight, I need to be closer to her.
Under normal circumstances, this would be impossible. She sleeps too lightly, with everything locked and a gun within reach. But I own this place and set up the locks and security system. It’s impenetrable unless you have the keys and codes.
It was easy enough for me to slip inside. First, I made sure she would sleep deeply. The knockout gas I used saw to that. Not too much, though. I must be careful with my little bird. The dose I gave her would put her under for an hour or so.
It had been so satisfying to watch her eat the food I provided. She barely ate today; I must make sure she’s fed. My little bird needs care, and I am here to provide it.
She works too hard. Did she get the clues I left for her? I’ll have to make sure to drop more breadcrumbs to lead her where I want her to go.
As I watch her sleep, her forehead wrinkles. The drug must be wearing off. She shakes her head, growing restless, twisting in the sheets. Is she dreaming?
I want to reach for her, soothe her nightmares away.
Instead, I reach for the sketchbook she left on the bed beside her. I need to see what she’s been drawing. I need to know what’s inside her head.
The first picture is of a couple smiling at one another. They’re headed in different directions but looking back at each other, fingers still entwined.
Another sketch of them clinging to each other. Kissing. She’s spent time on them, shading their faces. You can see the passion in their expressions and the way they hold each other.