Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
The next exit is at least fifteen miles. Noah can’t get off until then. Even if he turns around immediately after getting off, he’ll still be thirty miles behind me. That’s twenty minutes, minimum, even at the hurried speed he drives. And chances are, he’s not turning around the second he gets off. He’s going to work, probably will stay awhile.
The light in front of me turns green. I make a left and another sharp left and then nail the gas to merge back on the highway going the opposite direction I just came from.
I need to know what else he knows.
I need to get a step ahead, figure out what he’s got planned for me next.
CHAPTER
40
The lock on the front door is broken. He told me that mere days ago. If I’m lucky, he hasn’t gotten around to fixing it. Given the state of my life, I’d say I’m not lucky, yet still . . . Maybe the universe owes me a little something.
I pull into the driveway and cast a quick glance in the rear-view mirror, as if somehow he might have managed to catch up with me. But all I see is a long, empty road. Good. He’s still stuck on the highway. I swing out of my car, slam the door, and stride across the drive to the front of his house.
I reach for the doorknob and—and nothing. Motherfucker. He did fix it. Or it was never broken to begin with. I stare at it for a long moment, wondering if he knew I’d play right into his plans, that I’d follow him home, wander through this very front door. He literally tried to fuck me while fucking me. I let out a short, staccato exhalation of anger, and kick the door. Well, fuck him, too. I’m going to find out what he knows, one way or another.
Stepping back, I sweep the front of the house with my gaze, searching for where he might have hidden a key. That’s what people with houses do, right? Especially if they live alone, no spouse to rescue them if they lock themselves out. I search beneath a flowerpot filled with weeds, overturn several stones in the side yard. I even stretch and reach up high, running my fingers along the top of the doorframe.
Nothing. Like Noah knows he’d never lock himself out. Or he’s better at hiding things, which is absolutely true. He’s hidden so much from me.
I look back at the road again. I have to hurry. If he did see me on the highway, if he is turning around, suspicious I’d come here, he’ll be back soon. I edge around the house, stepping around construction material—a sawhorse, roof shingles on a pallet, piles of brick. The backyard grass isn’t cut like the front, and I have to wade through calf-high growth to try the back door. It slides open easily. Satisfaction rolls through me as I enter, closing it behind me. I stop and look around, searching for clues like they’ll be out in plain sight. But that’s dumb. I’m going to have to search, look places I wouldn’t see wandering through the house. The obvious place to start is his bedroom. I climb the stairs two at a time, rushing to get there. Once inside, I drop to my knees and look under the bed—nothing. It’s neat, tidy. Not a single dust bunny, even.
His closet stands open, and I go for it next. It’s a walk-in, and I turn a slow circle once inside. But there are no shoe-boxes for storage on the top shelf, no bins pushed to the back. Not even a single book to page through. I clench my jaw, gazing at shirts hung neatly on hangers, arranged by color. It almost looks like my closet, and knowing what he’s done, what he’s doing, that irks me. His dresser holds only clothes—socks matched and underwear folded. What is he, a sociopath?
Maybe. He just might be.
It makes me question his ultimate goal—to punish me? To hurt me?
My eyes land on the last piece of furniture in the room, a wide nightstand with several drawers. It’s so big it’s nearly a small dresser. I drop to my knees in front of it and go through the clutter on the surface—eyedrops, some coins, a candle, the glasses he was wearing the other night, what looks like a homeowner’s insurance policy, a couple of books, and . . . his laptop.
I grab that first, set it on the bed, flip the top open. I pray it’s not locked. I see students with unlocked laptops all the time, like they’re the most trusting idiots in the world. But one touch, and the password prompt pops up. I sigh. Back to the nightstand. The books are books on writing, story structure. Still, I flip through them, but find only notes he’s taken in the margins, a couple torn-off pieces of paper serving as bookmarks.