Chapter 4
DANE
Three Weeks Later
Istraighten the painting on the freshly mounted hanger and then step back to check my work. The stormy sea is perfectly parallel with the top of the chest of drawers in my cramped little bedroom.
There’s barely space in here for my king-size bed and a few basic furnishings, but I’ve made this ramshackle house comfortable enough.
I finalized the cash sale three days ago, and I’ve spent the weekend setting up the bedroom.
The rest of the house doesn’t need to be furnished—it’s best if it continues to appear uninhabited.
I don’t want Abigail to get curious about her new neighbor. I plan to watch her from my garden across the street from her apartment building, and she’ll never know I’m here.
My larger, grander house across town is much more comfortable than this aged home with its peeling, powder blue exterior. It’s been vacant for some time, and the owners were all too eager to sell above market price without an inspection.
I still haven’t decided how or when I’ll approach her outside of our brief, daily meetings at the café. For now, I’m enjoying my clandestine study of my prey. Watching her is thrilling, fascinating like nothing I’ve ever experienced.
Earlier this afternoon, I acquired her painting—the first one I ever saw her paint. She has a modest stall at the market, and a clueless tourist bought the stormy beach scene.
They never would’ve appreciated the piece like I do.
So, I waited for them to leave the market and then purchased it from them. They didn’t mind parting with the treasure for a measly hundred-dollar bill.
I sit back on my new bed and stare up at the painting. It deserves a far better display than the yellowing wallpaper in this dilapidated house, but for now, it will have to do.
In fact, if I acquire more of her art, I can conceal the cracks in the walls entirely.
I’ll go back to the market next weekend and buy all of the paintings she sells to the appreciative tourists. They might enjoy her artistic style, but they’re just looking for a pretty souvenir. I’m confident that my cash will be enough to convince them to hand over their purchases.
I love watching Abigail paint late into the night—especially her darker, erotic masterpieces—but the time she spends typing at her laptop is infuriating. I can’t see what she’s writing, and that’s maddening.
Untenable.
I’ve formulated a plan to satisfy my burning curiosity. It’s risky, but I can’t deny that the risk is exhilarating.
I leave the bedroom and step out into the night. The street is quiet, and Abigail’s window is dark. She’s not home. I followed her to make sure of it almost an hour ago. It’s half past nine, and she’s at the dive bar where we first met.
The meeting she doesn’t remember.
I force my tense jaw to relax. If I’d conquered Abigail in one night, I wouldn’t experience this life-changing hunt.
She frustrates me, but I can’t deny that this is the most entertainment I’ve ever experienced when pursuing a beautiful woman.
She doesn’t know the game we’re playing, but I’m enjoying it immensely.
When I take the first step across the empty street, all of my senses come alive in a way I’ve never known. I’m inside the ground floor breezeway of her building within seconds, tucked out of sight in the shadows.
My fingers shake slightly when I reach into my pocket, so I fist them around the lock picking kit I purchased online.
As a surgeon, I’m known for my steady hands. This anomaly is completely out of character, a novelty. Adrenaline hums through my veins, an almost giddy rush.
But there’s no one around to witness my crime.
I won’t be caught. I won’t be caged.
Despite that knowledge, my body feels as though I might as well be skydiving rather than quietly breaking into her apartment.
My heart pounds against my ribcage when the lock disengages, and her front door swings open with a rusty squeak. I can navigate the cramped space by the streetlight that filters through the large living room window; it would be stupid to turn on the lights.
I often see her writing while she’s curled up on her couch, but it only takes a few seconds for me to ascertain that her laptop isn’t there. She usually carries it with her into her bedroom once she’s finished with her feverish, mysterious typing.
I cross the living room, spanning the small space in four paces to reach her bedroom. It’s barely big enough for a twin sized bed, which is tucked into a corner beside the only window. The view shows peeling yellow paint on the building next door, and nothing else.
Abigail’s art showcases the natural world. Surely, she must feel stifled in this cramped, urban space?
A quick perusal through her drawers tells me that she either doesn’t care much for fashion, or she can only afford a few basic items. I recognize the simple black t-shirts she wears for her barista job. There are a few more delicate tops mixed in: camisoles with paint stains.
I trace the shape of a particularly beautiful spray of azure on the neckline of a pale pink top. The colors are barely discernible in the dim lighting, but I imagine the blue hue is similar to the shade of her eyes.
My fist closes around the soft cotton, and before I can think better of it, I tuck the small shirt into my pocket.
She might miss it, but I know she does her laundry in an aging machine that’s shared by all six apartments in her building.
If she can’t find the top later, she’ll assume she lost it there.
I try not to think too much about my rash act of possessiveness and turn my attention to the knickknacks on top of her dresser.
There are three unicorn figurines in various poses—two of cheap plastic and one fashioned in clay with a pearlescent glaze.
They’re positioned around a neon sign in cursive script: live deliciously.
It suits her flair for whimsy.
I think about the pink and gold unicorn pin that’s a constant presence on her apron. Otherwise, various anthropomorphic cartoon foodstuffs seem to be on regular rotation amongst her badges. I’ve noted a cupcake, an iced coffee, a donut, and even a frowning broccoli.
There are two similar food-related pieces on her dresser alongside the figurines and neon sign, but these smiling toys are plush and stuffed with cotton wool. I brush my fingers over a velvet-soft avocado and a little pod of happy peas.
They’re mildly ridiculous, but I can’t help finding them fascinating.
They’re childish toys for a woman in her mid-twenties, but Abigail seems to be an exception in so many ways.
There’s a fragility beneath her cheery smiles and shy glances, and although she doesn’t know it, I’ve glimpsed an alluring darkness at her core that calls to my own.
A bizarre desire to shelter and covet that sunshine girl wars with my craving to shatter her cheerful facade and reveal her darkest secrets.
My hand is in my pocket, rubbing the soft fabric of her paint-splattered camisole.
I force my fingers to unfurl and turn my attention back to her bedroom.
There’s a stack of books that can’t be contained by her small nightstand. The bedroom isn’t big enough for a proper bookshelf, but there must be at least three dozen titles in a haphazard array beside her bed.
I shake my head at the mess, but my disapproval of her disorganized nature doesn’t stop me from thumbing through the books. I recognize some of the more popular titles, and I get a sense that she enjoys fantasy novels with heavy romantic elements.
On her nightstand, a copy of The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue is well-worn, as though she’s read it several times. I check the book quickly, searching for any signs that she bought it secondhand.
No price stickers or penciled dollar amount on the interior.
It’s likely that she’s the one who damaged the binding while indulging in the story over and over again.
My touch lingers on the fine cracks that mar the spine, and I think about her long, elegant fingers caressing her beloved book.
Shaking my head, I set the book down and turn to the final space in her apartment that I have yet to explore: her closet.
I grasp the small knob and have to tug it sharply to open the ill-fitted, shuttered door. After a stuck moment, it snaps toward me. Something lightweight but rigid falls forward, colliding with my thigh.
I curse softly and catch the canvases before they fall to the floor.
There’s a stack of them packed into the closet, and they’re about to tip over into the bedroom. Carefully, I tilt them back so that they rest against the interior wall.
There are only a few extra dresses tucked away in here. The space is dominated by more paintings that are stacked on three shelves. There must be scores of them hidden in darkness.
I pick up three of the larger canvases and place them on her bed.
No one will see me through the bedroom window if I use the light on my phone.
The building next door is mere feet away, close enough to touch if I were to open the window.
There aren’t any vantage points to see into this room from outside.
My phone illuminates the first painting, and my breath catches.
Rough hemp rope digs into soft flesh. Her thigh cushions the bindings in creamy pillows, as though welcoming the painful bonds to sink deeper.
Another painting shows her delicate wrist, abraded from rope that’s been recently removed. The ecstatic high of release after being cruelly bound is evident in the gentle furl of her long fingers: blissful relaxation in the wake of being utterly devastated.
The third depicts a gloved hand encircling her pale throat, the black leather in shocking contrast to her creamy skin.
Thick fingers sink into her neck beneath the soft taper of her jaw, restricting the blood flow through her carotid arteries.
Her rosebud lips are parted—a gasp for air and a plea for further torment.