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Popcorn. What the hell?
Expression still wary, he shakes his head. “Non. I’m not here long. Just to shower and change before I--” Catching himself, he screws his face into that irritated frown I’ve grown accustomed to over the last few days. “Excuse me,” he says on passing.
“Wait.” At my request, he halts midstride and glances over his shoulder. “I was just …” I swallow past the lump in my throat. “I was just wondering about my truck?”
“Haven’t heard anything yet.”
No. Something is definitely up with this. “After a week?” The words barely eek past my tight throat.
The corner of his eye flickers, and he turns to face me, giving me the full breadth of his intimidating body. “Why are you asking, chère?”
The answer is simple, yet it might as well be a complex calculation he’s looking for me to solve in my head. “I …. I have to … go into town for some things.”
“What things?”
“Feminine. Things.” The gulp of my next swallow is painfully noisy, sounding off my obvious discomfort.
“I’ll have them purchased for you.”
“Won’t that be weird, though? The big bad Rougarou making a run for some tampons? Seems fishy.” I flinch at the gross association I just made, letting out a nervous chuckle. “I don’t mean … fishy. I mean—”
“I said I would have them purchased. Write down what you need.”
“Sure. Okay.” Not wanting to draw any more suspicion from him, I nod. “I can do that. And if you just … keep me updated on my truck.”
Without bothering to say anything more, he twists back around and shoves a key into the lock of his office door. After he’s disappeared for a couple seconds, I peek around the hallway, to see if I can scope anything. All I can make out through the crack of the door is the quick movements of his hands, as he sets his bag down on the desk. Seconds later, the crack in the door widens, and I hustle back toward the kitchen. Reaching for the popcorn, I try to make as much noise as I can, clanging the container against a nearby jar to give the impression I’m just in here making another mess.
“Sure you don’t want any popcorn?” I call out to him.
Only a grumbled noise answers, and at the sound of a slightly creaky hinge, I peek around the hallway again, watch him exit the office. Leaving the door wide open on his way to the bedroom.
Once he’s out of sight, I abandon the popcorn kernels set out on the counter and tiptoe toward the office. The distinct pattering of the shower gives me the green light to hustle, and I slip through the open door.
Small and clean, the office offers no more clues into the man than the rest of the house. No pictures. No bills scattered over the sleek, black, L-shaped desk and matching leather chair. I open drawers that hold nothing more than supplies--pens, notepads, stapler.
A tug on the bottommost drawer, the biggest one, reveals that it’s locked, and though I could go in search of the key, I’m trying to be efficient with this rare opportunity.
A calendar stretches across the surface of the desktop with nothing scribbled on its dates.
Nothing else. No landline.
The bag he carried in still sits propped open, and I peek inside to find stacks of perfectly crisp hundreds. Judging by the thickness of the bag, there has to be over a half-million dollars sitting out. Right here on his desk. And on top of them is an unimpressive phone. Nothing fancy, or gadgety—a burner phone, I’d bet.
I swipe it up, realizing I have a very limited window in which to call someone, but who?
Even if I wanted to call the cops, what would I tell them? I’m somewhere in the swamps? I doubt this thing has GPS enabled to give them any coordinates.
Brie, it is.
Hands trembling so bad I’m afraid I might drop the paper, I dial the number.
First ring. Second ring. Third, fourth, fifth.
No answer.
“Shit!” I hang up and dial it again.
Of course there’s no answer. Why is there never an answer in times like these? Times when the stranger you let talk you into following him home, who’s kept you placated on his boat for a week, might actually have plans to kill you and feed you to his pet alligator?
