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“I told her I didn’t know anything about it. I’d already moved your car. There’s no proof I was ever there.”
I quirk a brow, the expression causing a twinge of pain from the bruise left by his punch to my face. “Really? A house that big didn’t have security cameras?”
“They did, but they weren’t being monitored. I hired a realtor to go and check the place out a few weeks ago. I watched her type in the gate code and saw that the only cameras were on the front and back doors. The house alarm code, which I also memorized, deactivated the motion sensors. A week later, I asked to see it again. When people think you have money, the kind of money it would take to buy a place like that, they tend not to ask many questions. I brought some electrical tape with me and stuck a piece to each of the lenses. When I went back a few days later, the tape was still there.” He looks proud of himself, and I suppose he should be. As far as plans go, it was a pretty good one.
“So, your sister doesn’t suspect anything?”
“It’s hard to say.” He stands, opening the closet again and pulling out a dry towel. “She doesn’t trust me—never has. But she also doesn’t understand me. Or try to understand me, for that matter. No one does. No one except you. The you who wrote those books.”
“I’m sure that’s not true.”
“It is.” He bends down, pulling up the drain and holding out the towel. “Come on. You have to dry off and go back downstairs. I’m going to be late for work.”
“But it’s…” In truth, I have no idea what time it is, but it’s certainly not morning. “It’s not time for school.”
He doesn’t answer; he just turns his back to me as I gently pat my body dry. He grabs my dirty clothes from the floor, and I wrap my body in the towel, following him out of the bathroom. The promise that he’s going to be leaving soon has me filled with relief.
He stops off in his bedroom, digging through his drawers and tossing worried glances my way every few seconds. Finally, he grabs a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt and holds them out. “Here. Something clean for you to wear.”
“Thank you.” I take the clothes carefully. I still don’t want to wear anything of his. I don’t want his scent on me any more than it already is. But as a shiver runs over me, I know I can’t be picky. I doubt I’ll ever get my clothes back, and I have to wear something. He grabs my arm and leads me through the living room, shaking his head as if he’s just now seeing the mess he made.
He takes me downstairs and puts me inside my prison cell. For a second, I worry he’s going to demand to watch me change, but he doesn’t.
Instead, he looks me up and down, then points to the camera. “I’ll be back in a few hours. I have the camera, though, and I’ll be watching. Hear me, Mari, when I say this: If you do anything weird, if you try to escape again…” He pauses, huffing a breath through his nose. “I won’t hesitate this time. You’ll leave me no choice. I’ll have to kill you.”
CHAPTERNINETEEN
Knowing that I have the house to myself means I can sleep, and despite how scared and worried I am, I take advantage of that. It feels like the first real sleep I’ve had in so long. Perhaps it’s because of how exhausted I am from all of the adrenaline and exertion from the day, but either way, after he shuts the door, and I take off my wet bra and underwear in the corner, away from the camera, I put on his clothes, climb into bed, and the next thing I know, it’s morning.
At least, it feels like morning, and I can hear him moving around upstairs. It’s noisier than ever before, and I realize he must be cleaning up his mess from yesterday.
It gives me a certain sort of pleasure to picture him sweeping up the shattered glass, righting the fallen lamp and furniture, scrubbing the food from the cracks and crevices of the floor, and straightening the picture frames he knocked down. To know, for once, that he’s having to deal with the consequences of his actions is oddly satisfying. And, of course, there’s always a chance he could miss something that his sister might notice during her next visit. Something that would lead to her finding me. Something that would be his downfall.
I lie in bed all morning, munching on the grape LifeSavers he seems to have an endless supply of and thinking about what I learned yesterday. The fact that the police showed up at the house means Kassara sent them. It means she’s looking for me, that she’s not giving up.
The police have to be looking for me, too, still. If they didn’t locate me where I was supposed to be, if I didn’t show back up at home, they would be trying to search for me somewhere. Does that mean they’ve contacted the real Owen Doyle? Would they be trying to figure out how someone was able to access his email account? Or spoof it, perhaps?
No one has the password to my email account, but it’s possible Kassara could figure it out. Or maybe the police have a way to access it without the password. If they can get into it, maybe they’ll be able to trace where the email came from. Or maybe they could see who might’ve had access to the house where we met, aside from Chris’s sister. Is there a chance they’ll connect the dots between them? That has to be my greatest hope for rescue.
Unless Chris was lying about that.
He’s lied to me about so much else. It’s possible he’s lying about everything.
I picture a nationwide search for me, picture my name in the headlines for the first time since the shooting. For a reason other than my loss. My deepest pain.
When I first began publishing, I imagined my fame would be instant. I, like all authors—whether or not they’ll admit it—thought I was that good. Really, really good. I thought I would be the next big thing. So, when it didn’t happen, I was devastated. My career has been fine, don’t get me wrong. Modest, but successful enough to write full-time and support myself. Successful enough to splurge for the venti at Starbucks without thinking twice or purchase random things from Amazon without checking my account balance.
Still, my name has never been in the news for something of my own merit. Not then and not now.
Once again, someone else’s actions will have determined the story they spin. Will they call me stupid for falling for his tricks? Will they say I deserved what I got? Will they say the police are wasting resources looking for a stupid, fame-obsessed woman who jumped at the chance to change her life without looking into things more? Will tech experts weigh in and say I should’ve been able to tell the email was fake or hacked or stolen somehow?
Will some of my biggest critics say at least the world will never be subjected to another half-baked Marietta Morgan novel with their two-dimensional characters, juvenile dialogue, and unrealistic plot twists? Or will my death and disappearance be the start of my rise to fame? Like those artists who become popular—more admired, worth more—just after their deaths.
Like van Gogh and Sylvia Plath. People who were never appreciated during their life and will never know the peak of their success or the sheer number of people their work has reached. It’s a devastating possibility.
As angry and bitter as those thoughts make me, I can’t help feeling joy over the fact that Kassara is trying. Somehow, even in this dim, stuffy room, it makes me feel less alone.
After several hours of cleaning and shuffling around upstairs, the noise stops, and I know he’ll be down to see me soon.
