CHAPTER 5
Heather
I lazed on the couch, bored out of my mind, flipping through the endless channels on the television, willing an interesting show to be on. But nothing clicked. I sighed, leaning back on the plush couch. I should have been looking for a job. Or putting together a list of reasons for why Grant should let me go. Why he should free me from this prison.
I sometimes forgot that we weren’t in a two-story house in suburbia, but were on the fortieth floor of a luxury apartment building. It was spacious, and furnished with nice things than I hadn’t expected from Grant. I wondered how much input he had in the furniture. As far as I knew, Heather and Zaid had been the ones to decorate it.
I guess it wasn’t all bad, but I wouldn’t admit that out loud to anyone. In some ways, this situation should have been up my alley—a person who had to accept me and was destined to live with me for the foreseeable future. But knowing that Grant was doing it as a job was a glaring red flag. He wasn’t doing it because he liked me. He was doing it because he had to.
The digital lock clicked, and the door opened. Grant threw a box on the kitchen counter and rifled through it.
I crossed my arms. “You were gone for a long time,” I said.
His eyes flicked to me, back to the box. He removed a thin container, smaller than a bottle cap, and opened it to reveal a chip. “This is for your phone.” He held out his palm, waiting for me to give him my phone. I raised a brow.
“What is it?”
“A tracking device.”
“A tracking device?!” I groaned, clenching my fists next to me. “I’m not giving you my phone, asshole.”
He kept a steady voice: “It’s for your safety.”
“So you can keep tabs on me like I’m some sort of criminal?” I rubbed my forehead, pacing back and forth. I guess I technically was a criminal; trading Eric my time for the money I owed him, carrying his drugs which ended up killing someone—those were criminal acts. But that was the old me. The new me, the woman who was trying to fit into ‘normal’ society, wasn’t a criminal. I didn’t need someone to track my every move.
“I need to be able to find you in case something happens,” Grant said.
“Yesterday you didn’t give a shit about the photos.” Asking what I needed and grunting in confirmation wasn’t supportive. It was obligatory. “Now you want to track me?”
“It’s temporary. Once we figure out the stalking situation—”
“Now it’s a stalker?” I gawked. “What if the ‘stalker’ isn’t even real?” I made air quotes to show that I didn’t believe we needed to usethatword. “What if I made it up? They’re just pictures. It’s nothing.”
The words were like chalk dissolving on my tongue. None of it was true. I didn’t make it up, and they weren’t just any pictures. They were pictures of me. Whether I liked it or not, I knew the truth.
Someone was following me.
He touched my arm. I ducked away.
“Fine,” I hissed. “Whatever.”
Grant’s answered a phone call and I went to the bedroom, grabbing my phone off of the nightstand. I had a missed call from Heather, but I’d call her back later. I wanted to get this over with now. Would he put listening equipment on my phone too? Go so far as to track my text messages?
A knock sounded on the front door. Grant continued to pull devices out of the box.
“Are you going to get that?” I yelled from upstairs.
“It’s for you,” he said.
Who the hell was visiting now? My mind instantly went to the faceless stalker, a tall, dark figure with Dean’s whitish-gray eyes, but Grant was acting too casual for that to be an option. I bounded down the stairs and peeked in the peephole.
Loose brown curls resting on her shoulders, a farmer’s tan, turquoise eyes.
Not a stalker. My older sister.
I opened the door. “Heather!”
She lifted a bag. “I brought treats.”
