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Oh my God.
It couldn’t be…
Sitting up, I slam the book shut and make my way upstairs. I walk down the hall, toward the room I shared with Garrison when I first arrived here—his room. Snatching the frame from the nightstand, I barely look at it before heading straight to the box of photographs in Grant’s room of toys.
Opening the box, I rifle through the photos until I find the woman who shares the same adoring look as me. Lifting the frame and holding them side-by-side, there is no denying it. The bound woman is Garrison’s mother.
Digging through the box, there are dozens of photos of her—the look on her face throughout them spreads the entire gambit of emotions.
But what order do they go in?
Were they a loving couple and she grew afraid of him?
Or was she terrified of him and grew to love him?
“Kitten?” Grant’s voice carries through the house. I swallow the lump in my throat as I shove the photographs back into the box.
“Upstairs, sir,” I call back to him as I put the frame in the box as well, not knowing where else to hide it right now.
His shoes thump against the steps, the thud of my heart matching his pace as he makes his way upstairs to me.
I position the box back on the shelf before grabbing a thick bundle of black jute from the wall. Trying to catch my unsteady breath, I toy with the end of the rope as Grant walks into the room.
“And what are you doing in here, kitten?” His voice is coy as he looks around the room before fixating on the heavy, bound rope in my hand.
“Nothing. Just looking around and passing time while I waited for you,” I lie, immediately questioning why it pangs me with guilt.
“Bring that downstairs.” He eyes the rope in my hands again. “I know just what to do with it after dinner. I had Victor turn on the heaters, so we can enjoy tonight’s dinner under the stars by the pool.”
He steps closer and lightly grips my jaw. Bending down, he presses his lips to mine, and I can taste his gin-scented breath on my tongue.
“Were you a good pet today?” he questions as he stares into my eyes.
Unable to gather a response, I nod.
Does looking through things and finding photos of your deceased wife bound and gagged count as being good?
I mean, he didn’t say don’t go through any of my things.
Jesus, Abby…
“Such a good girl.” He smiles down at me with pride. Releasing my chin, he places his hand on the small of my back and leads me through the house and to the patio by the pool.
Stepping through the doors to the poolside patio, my skin immediately prickles with goosebumps from the cool, night air. A chill which is quickly removed as Grant pulls out my chair at the table, and I feel the warm air from the gas heater blow over me.
Grant takes his seat across from me, enjoying a slow, savory sip of his martini, and eats one of the mini pickled onions before questioning, “What did you do all day while I was out, kitten?”
“I read, mostly,” I answer truthfully. “Did you have a good day?”
In an unusual response, Grant merely shrugs his shoulders. Before I have an opportunity to delve into it further, Victor walks onto the patio with our meal. He places the plates in front of us, eyes our drinks to see if we need a second, and promptly disappears.
Grant and I eat dinner in near silence. His eyes primarily trained on the plate before him or the bound jute at the edge of the table. While eating in silence isn’t entirely unusual, I usually find his eyes on me or a hand on my thigh. Yet tonight, I get neither.
We’ve no more than finished dinner when Victor approaches to collect our plates. As he walks from the table, Grant tells him, “That will be all for tonight. Please ensure we are not disturbed.”
Victor tips his head and retreats into the house. The moment he shuts the door, a chill runs down my spine as though the heater above me has been turned off.
“You asked earlier how my day was.” Grant pauses to take a sip of his drink. “I watched my friend fuck some whore, went to a long lunch, and talked a great deal about you and the predicament that you have put me in.”
