Page 24

Great. That’s great, Patience. Yes, the murderous stalker is there to keep you safe. I can’t have Stockholm syndrome without being held captive, right? That’s not unhinged at all.

Changing into my yoga pants, lilac hoodie, and white baseball cap, I take a once-over in the mirror. Just a normal suburban housewife on a jog.

Gerald curls up on the pillow exhausted from his strenuous day of mayhem. His nose twitches in his sleep. It’s almost heartbreaking to do it, but he’ll never forgive me if I don’t serve him breakfast. I’m running out of mugs. It’s just not worth the risk. The dishes must be saved! Working my fingers under his soft squishy body, I gently cradle him and slip him into the warm pocket of my hoodie. My pocket comes alive halfway down the stairs. No doubt the tiny guy is energized for breakfast. As I set him down, a bag on the counter catches my eye. Tossing a few pellets in his bowl, I run my fingers over his little head. He jumps out and begins munching away as I grab my keys and head out the front door.

Parking next to a golf course, I throw on my backpack and start my jog. I turn onto Ethan’s street, just as his BMW pulls out of the driveway. God, my timing is perfect. I dip my head down as his car makes its way toward me. As he passes, I see his arm outstretched, tapping the screen on his dashboard.

His car turns the corner, and I pull out my phone to text Litza. A few moments later, she confirms the security system at his house is off. She really is a magician.

I stroll to the front door. Pulling up the code she sent, I slip on my gloves and punch the numbers on the keypad. The door unlocks, allowing me to slip in. Casually.

The barren sight that greets me sends a shiver down my spine. The only signs of life in the foyer are a bench with a pair of shoes and cabinet doors along the side of the wall near the stairs. That’s odd.

Stepping forward, I pull one open. Oh, wow. Shoe cubbies. I didn’t take him for a shoe cubby person. Closing the cabinet, I pad slowly down the hallway. I get the sense that the emptiness is intentional. No one is this dull.

The whole thing is unnecessary and lifeless. And it is vast. There’s no other word for it. Tall vaulted white ceilings and long, stretching hallways. No paintings adorn the walls. Not a single photo or drawing. The white walls give way to the living room, which is just as devoid of personality as the rest of the house. Does this man not have a life? Who lives like this? It’s depressing. I’ve seen hospital rooms with more character.

I look at the couch and snort. The center of life in all living rooms is dead. The cushions sit square and firm, as though they’ve never been touched. Not an indent or stain. Oh, for fuck’s sake! I roll my eyes. The remote has a holder. The only thing on the wall is the TV propped on some mount. This is an OCD dream.

A bookcase stands against the wall. Immaculately clean glass doors are secured to protect the tiny paper and cloth hostages inside. Walking over to the bookcase, peel the glove off my hand, and lightly streak the glass. It’s not much, but it’s something. With any luck, my creative touch will provide hope to the other captives in the room.

I glance at the kitchen and quickly decide it’s just as useless as the living room for gathering any information about this man, though the teal walls and copper touches hold some warmth. A pleasant change from what I’ve seen so far. A large black staircase breaks the white walls at the back of the living room. Stepping up the staircase, I look down at the scene.

A shiver runs down my spine. As perfect as a magazine cover. A façade for others, absent of any individualism. The top of the landing stops in the middle of a hallway. I look to my right. The barren wall stretches the full length of the house. Even the hallway is vast. Shaking my head, I step onto the landing. After last night, I don’t have to guess the direction of the bedroom, so I turn right.

My nose wrinkles at the open- plan bedroom. Dark blue, almost black walls, and an annoyingly large bed. Still no photos. No posters. His computer and what I can only assume is his office area sits to my left, and the rest of the bedroom sets far to my right. Repulsive.

Two different areas. Two mental states. Two different rooms. Married together by patchwork floor planning. The travesty.

Logically, there should be some information on his desk, so I pad over and flip through the scattered pieces of paper. Mostly investment information, ballots for shareholders, and statements. Nothing new. He’s loaded. As if I didn’t already know that. The grandiose staircase made that perfectly clear.

Reaching down, I strike the keyboard with a single finger, hoping against hope that he’s left it unlocked. A small box appears to have a seizure on the screen. Nope. A small white password block appears against a black screen. Not even his computer survived the culling of personality. The more I walk through this house, the more certain I am that he’s a ghost or just fucking soulless. Those are the only reasonable explanations to live like this. Scanning the sterile room, I type in the only word that comes to mind: Lysol.

The box shakes but refuses to open.

I walk over to the black bed. Shocker. It’s been made. Perfect, hard, crisp lines at the corners of the bed draw my attention. I pull back the comforter—tight, folded corners, tucked under the mattress send a shiver down my spine.

My fingers begin to twitch.

Biting my lip. I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t.

My finger extends, but I curl it back.

Oh, fuck it.

Unable to resist the temptation, I slip a finger in the tucked fold of the corner, pulling it free from its bedframe shackle.

Yes! Victory.

I walk over to the side of the bed. His tortoiseshell glasses rest on top of the nightstand. Pinching the ends between my fingers, I give them a twirl before slipping them over my nose. A giggle bursts free as the room becomes a haze of undiscernible shapes. The man is fucking blind as a bat. Taking the glasses off, I roll them between my fingers.

The thought of him in glasses, lying shirtless in bed makes my thighs clench. I bet he has the perfect carpeting of chest hair. Wetness pools between my legs.

Shaking my head, I set the glasses down. I need to explore a different room…away from the bed.

I head into the bathroom. A blue light in the corner of the vanity catches my attention. Bringing my face eye level with the counter, I look at the toothbrush encased in its UV tomb. My eyes trail to the right. The toothpaste didn’t fare any better. It sits emaciated in a tiny plastic dispenser. Of course, he has a toothbrush dispenser. Straightening myself, I turn and open the door behind me.

I find the light switch and flick it on—his closet. My stomach sinks. It’s a nightmare. Not a single shoe is out of place. The suits are color-coordinated, packed in garment bags. Running my fingers along the hangers, I look at the extensive selection of colors. Gray, black, white, and blue. Positively a rainbow. Prisoners have a better color pallet than this man. My eyes trail to the dresser. I’m not even going open it. It’s bad enough sock organizers exist. I’d rather continue to believe it’s a marketing tactic and no one actually buys them. None of this helps me to learn more about this man.