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Ignoring the suits and fancy stuff, I head to the drawers lining the back wall.
The first drawer I randomly select is full of socks. Socks laid flat, in rows, not paired up.
“Weirdo,” I whisper, closing the drawer.
The next drawer is nearly as shocking. On their own, the boxers folded into perfect squares wouldn’t be that brow-raising, but the brightly colored silks were not what I was expecting.
Unable to help myself, I reach out and rub the material between my thumb and forefinger. They’re so soft and unexpected, I feel another pair.
But I definitely don’t wonder what King would look like wearing them.
And I don’t feel any sort of twisting low in my stomach.
Nope. Not at all. It’s way too soon for Stockholm syndrome. That’s just my body reminding me that I expelled everything I ate earlier.
I slam the drawer shut. I’m not wearing King’s underwear to bed.
The next drawer finally proves useful, when I find a selection of athletic pants. I know they’ll be way too long for me, but they’re better than wearing a stranger’s boxers.
When King was forcibly carrying me from Lee’s building, and my body was plastered to the front of his, it didn’t seem like he had much body fat. But he’s a big man with a big frame, so even though I might beheavy, I inwardly sneer at the memory of him calling me that, the elastic waist means they should stretch over my hips.
It takes another two drawers before I find t-shirts. And another drawer before I find black ones. Because I’m not wearing a white t-shirt while braless. Not here. Not for all the Pop-Tarts.
Going back to the first drawer, I grab out a pair of black tube socks, completing my head-to-toe black look.
Just as I start to slide the drawer closed, I pause, then use my free hand to jumble the socks all together.
If I had both hands, or patience, I’d tie them all into knots. But I have a feeling there will be time for that later.
Feeling slightly better, with my bundle in hand, I turn around, and spot a very large safe. It’s hidden behind the open door, so you don’t see it when you first walk in, but the shiny surface makes it hard to miss.
Since I just love to be disappointed, I go over and inspect the safe, slightly surprised that there isn’t a little square print reader on it. And then more surprised when I can’t find anything. No dial, no hinges, no nothing.
But zap me once, shame on you, zap me twice…
I keep my fingers away from the surface and exit the closet.
CHAPTER12
King
Age 32.
Address––
Social security number––
Tax return––
More screens pop open on my monitors and the sheer quantity of information makes me glad I’m doing this in my office and not on my laptop. Sometimes I forget how much you can find on people who have no need to hide everything about themselves.
And not just Savannah. Her parents, cousins, past co-workers… Her family isn’t big, but there’s enough of them.
It’s almost too easy to collect images off their social media accounts and drop them into a tablet.
A small, mostly dead part, inside of my chest twists as I compile more and more photos. Her cousin singing in a church choir. Her cousin’s daughters playing on their school’s playground. Savannah’s dad on a golf course, with the name of their retirement community printed on the side of his golf cart. Her friend Mandi, the one who’s house we met at, smiling with her arm around the shoulders of a beaming Savannah in front of the galleries that Mandi owns.
And more. So much more.
