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“What?”
He frowns, turning uncertain. “The money you left in my mailbox.” When I don’t reply, he says, “For six months’ rent in advance.”
The suspicion growing inside me threatens to overwhelm my composure. Not wanting to give anything away, I hide my shock by mumbling something unintelligible while taking the stairs two by two.
Someone paid my rent.
For six months.
I don’t have to wonder who.
The question is why.
After an early supper and eight hours of sleep, I don’t feel better, not even knowing my rent has been taken care of for six months. I’ve tossed and turned all night, trying to figure out Ian’s motives and finally came to the conclusion that he was probably just easing his conscience.
What we did was wrong on so many levels. Even a criminal had to realize it. He may not regret it, but perhaps he feels better for paying me off. How did he know I was late with my rent? The only plausible explanation is that he saw the termination of lease contract notice on my door when he broke in to deliver the phone. A shiver creeps over me when I think about him here, in my space. I wasn’t going to use the phone, but as I finally face the fact that I can’t look for a job without a phone for a potential employer to be able to get hold of me, I cave. I reach for it on the nightstand and set up the phone.
Getting out of bed, I shower, dress in jeans and a men’s-style shirt, and have breakfast. My rent may be covered for six months, but I still need to eat. I still need to change my lock. Eventually, I’ll need another car. The bus routes don’t cover everywhere in town. Some distances are too far to walk, and using cabs is too expensive.
Donning all the optimism I possess, I set out for another day of job hunting. I’ve searched employment agencies online last night, but my qualification always come up short. That didn’t prevent me from filling out the preliminary questionnaire of every agency in Rustenburg to add my name to their database of candidates. Hopefully, the effort will earn me an interview with one or more of those agencies.
As I lock my door and go outside, I contemplate the backup plan I came up with last night. If all else fails, I’ll try at Sun City. The place is enormous. They need croupiers, cashiers, cleaners, and waiters. Surely, they have vacancies from time to time.
Fortified with the knowledge of having a safety net, I set out a little less despondent than yesterday. Putting on my brightest smile, I approach reluctant shop assistants and restaurant managers.
The summer sun beats down on my head. Sweat trickles down my spine as I go around the part of town I haven’t covered yesterday. The later it gets, the more crumpled the printed CV turns in my hand and the more effort it takes to cling to my smile.
By five, I finally admit defeat and drag myself home. Tomorrow, I’ll take the bus to Sun City. After the hijacking, not to mention the heist, it’s not a place I look forward to revisit, but I refuse to give up hope. If I can’t find a job there, I’ll go to Johannesburg. I grew up here, but there’s nothing keeping me in Rustenburg. I can pack up in a blink.
My head is crammed full of scenarios and probabilities, and my gaze is trained on the pavement. I try to be creative in solving my problem by thinking outside of the box. Widening my scope to other cities is my best bet if Sun City doesn’t work out.
Near my apartment building, I go through my bag for my keys. I’m tired and starving. All I want is to gobble down some pasta, soak in a bath, and fall into bed. About to take the path that cuts through the garden, I lift my eyes and stop dead.
On the corner with one shoulder braced against the lamppost and his ankles crossed, stands Ian.
Chapter 9
Cas
My breathing turns shallow as my heart skips a few beats. What have I done wrong? I rack my brain for what I said to the cops. I kept our agreement. Nothing Ian doesn’t want known has slipped.
I swallow as he straightens, taking in the dark-blue jeans, black T-shirt, leather jacket, and the baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. His face is in the shadows under the visor of the cap, but I feel his gaze on me as clearly as I feel the ridges of the key pressing into my palm.
He widens his stance and hooks his thumbs into his waistband. The seconds stretch into eternity between us, and the world drops from under my feet. Everything about that pose is casual, including the relaxed set of his broad shoulders, but the energy emanating from him is volatile. His clothes don’t hide the latent strength of his muscles. There’s potent violence under all that calmness. Under the chaos of his emotions is forced control. Instinctively, I feel it. Him. He’s quiet on the surface, but underneath the tranquil veneer brews the storm. Wild. Dangerous. I can think of another few adjectives to describe him, but my analysis doesn’t go further. My mind trips over the reason he’s here.
