10. Cain
Her wallet is of no interest to me.
I already checked it earlier, finding spare change and credit cards, no doubt maxed-out if I am to judge by her sparse diet and choice of low-end motel.
Her driver’s license is in there as well, which is useful for her signature if I have to forge it.
It shouldn’t be hard to copy.
Her handwriting is tight and too proper, with a forced neatness to it.
Mother always said you can tell a lot about a person from their penmanship.
Of course, hers was cursive and swooping, the very picture of sophistication.
I bark a sharp laugh.
Not sure if she was right, because none of its elegance hinted at her functional alcoholism.
I rummage through the rest of Erica’s things.
She also carries a full bottle of sleeping pills, definitely not a proper prescription.
A packet of tissues.
A small polka-dot bag with drugstore makeup, but it’s all cheap shit.
Too cheap for an extraordinary woman like her.
Thanks to Mandy, I know my way around makeup brands.
That’s a perk of having a sister turned online beauty guru with millions of subscribers.
Pride hums in my chest every time I think about how far she’s come.
Whenever she drops by, she offloads bags of luxury cosmetics from promotional packages in my bathroom.
Then she gives me a conspiratorial smirk, waggling her brows while instructing me to gift them to my lady friends .
I have no lady friends, and I don’t want any, either, but Mandy is more concerned about me finding a wife than I am.
It’s her favorite topic.
She can go on and on about how I’ll end up old and grey and alone.
I never know what to do with the stuff she gives me, but throwing it away seems rude and wasteful.
On a regular basis, I donate boxes full of it to women’s shelters, but it keeps piling up.
Hopefully Erica will like some of the products, even if her favorite perfume isn’t among them.
I found an empty bottle of it in her weekender, and I already ordered a giftset from Mandy’s recommended beauty supply store in San Antonio.
For a fee, they do same-day delivery.
It’ll be here and ready for her when she wakes up.
I dig Erica’s phone out from between single-packaged pads.
When I read her bucket list, I didn’t pay much attention to the model, but it’s at least a few years old with a touch button relying on fingerprint technology to unlock it.
My pulse is in my throat as I reach across the bed and take her cold hand into mine.
Sparks tingle under my skin wherever we touch.
I stare at her slender fingers.
The size difference between our hands is startling.
When I prepared her for surgery, I didn’t allow myself to look at her for too long.
A cowardly part of me knew if I did, I wouldn’t release her into death’s hold.
But I was kidding myself from the start when I thought I could ever go through with selling her for parts.
I freeze, my eyes fixed on the small purple bruise from the IV in the bend of her elbow.
My thumb moves on its own, rubbing gentle circles over her soft palm and tracing the lines.
I feel the calm beat of her pulse at her slim wrist and follow blue veins flowing like rivers up her arm to her shoulder.
Little dove .
I can’t help thinking about the hollow lightness of bones stretching beneath white-feathered wings.
So delicate.
So breakable.
Determination wrapped in a silken layer of red-hot obsession anchors itself in my chest.
It’s too late to turn back.
If I can’t kill her, I’m gonna keep her, and it’s not because I’ll go to fuckin’ jail if she escapes and goes to the cops.
It’s not about overpowering her with my raw, superior strength.
That part is easy, almost anybody can do it, and I’m not just anybody.
This is about breaking her spirit, getting into her head and fucking with her mind until all she can think of, all she wants is me .
I’ll make her need me like the breath in her lungs, make her crave my cock like the blood pumping through her veins.
She’ll either learn to enjoy her new life and stay with me of her own free will or she’ll lie in chains at my feet.
But I know one thing for sure: I’ll never let Erica go.
“I’m gonna break you, darlin’,” I mumble.
“And you’ll thank me for it.”
I know exactly what I gotta do.
Erica can’t stay a captive in my house forever.
Sooner or later, somebody will notice.
Probably Mandy when she comes to visit the next time.
She’s the best at reading me, though she never found out about my killing habits.
I know how to chain Erica to me and none will be the wiser.
Nobody will figure it out.
I’ll build a cage without bars for my little dove—but a cage, nevertheless.
I push Erica’s right thumb to the button on the phone and it unlocks.
A small sigh escapes her when I tuck her arm under the covers, and my mouth twitches upward.
I reckon she ain’t gonna be this calm when she wakes up.
She definitely needs all the rest she can get.
I turn my attention to the glowing screen.
The reception out here gets a bit dodgy sometimes, but her phone has no connection at all.
Why does she carry a phone without a plan?
I start with the photo gallery.
I swipe through pictures of landscapes, food, and mirror selfies with a tiny studio apartment in the background, until my finger stops at a snapshot of her with a man.
Tension cords my neck.
The picture is a bit blurry, like she asked a passerby in a hurry to take it.
Erica is divinity wrapped in grey skinny jeans, a tight crimson top with a deep v-cut, and a black leather jacket.
Her lips are painted red, and she wears those dark combat boots with the silver studs she had on when I saw her at the gas station.
She looks like a fuckin’ rock star.
The sleazebag next to her, though…
I grit my teeth.
Damn, I wanna rip that sly smirk off his face.
He has no right to touch her with his greasy hands.
And what’s with the wrinkled old T-shirt and stained sweatpants?
Disgusting loser .
Can’t he put in some effort?
Doesn’t he know how lucky he is to be standing by her side?
And doesn’t she know she can do leagues better than this asshat?
Doesn’t she know she could have any man she wants—
Jesus Christ, I need to calm down.
I take a deep breath and close the gallery app to check her texts.
A handful of conversations appear on the screen.
Overdraft notices from her bank.
A text from her phone provider, announcing the cut-off date for her plan—and the $230 she still owes.
Some older exchanges with people called Kevin, Stacy, and Veronica about swapping shifts at a restaurant.
I tap on the chat with “boss” and my head tilts as I read the last message.
Another chat with “landlord.”
I piece Erica’s story together like a puzzle.
She lost her job.
Probably couldn’t find other work.
Many folks have a hard time finding employment nowadays, that isn’t so uncommon.
Then she got kicked out of her place.
My little dove is broke.
Homeless.
And alone.
I smirk.
Well, not anymore.
I connect her phone to the Wi-Fi and unlock her banking app with her thumb to get her details.
Then I grab my own phone and get to work.
With a few swipes and taps her overdrafts are cleared, her credit card debt gone, and her current account shows a healthy 10k balance.
A bit of pocket money in case she needs something and I’m not around.
That’s the simple part.
Money ain’t an issue for me at this point in my life, but something is still bothering me.
Or rather, somebody.
That guy from the picture .
He gives off the same vibes as those small-time criminals I dealt with when I first got into the organ trade.
The kind that thought they could cheat me and were rewarded with a bullet to the head.
I go back through Erica’s texts.
There are a few more from other work colleagues, talking restaurant business.
Then finally “Nate” with a heart next to it.
“Got you, asshole!” I slap my thigh.
The thread of texts with Nate is long and I scroll up to earlier messages to find out more information.
I read about cute date nights planned by her to which he unenthusiastically agreed.
Lots of rants from him, complaining about one piece of shit friend or another.
He never asked about her.
Not once.
Typical scumbag behavior.
My heart drops when I get to the latest texts.
They’re all from her.
All left on sent.
No replies.
The more I read, the harder my pulse races.
My free hand balls into a fist, shaking with the urge to beat this Nate to a fuckin’ pulp and make him eat through a straw for the rest of his short life.
I jump up.
Rage clouds my vision like a red haze as I rush to my office and drop into the chair behind the desk, leaving Erica’s phone on top.
He stole from her.
He destroyed her life.
I slam a palm onto the table before tapping on her contacts, scrolling through the names until I find him.
It must be an old address or Erica would’ve dropped by instead of pleading with him via text, but it’s good enough.
A starting point.
I grab my keys from my pocket and unlock the bottom drawer of the desk to take out a sleek black laptop.
I know better than to use the unprotected desktop PC with all my data on it to surf the dark web.
A slow smirk curves my lips.
Nobody except me gets away with hurting my little dove.
“I’m fuckin’ coming for you, Nate.”