Chapter 36 Sydney
Sydney
What time was it? What day? Sydney couldn’t be sure of the year. Tangled in Fink’s limbs, wrapped in a fluffy duvet on a bed that doubled as a cloud, she hated the idea of leaving, but if she didn’t, her bladder would surely explode.
Carefully, she unwrapped herself from the man beside her and slid out from under the covers. Her feet landed on cold hardwood, sending a shiver through her. While the temperature outside was cool, the inside of the cabin was toasty from the fire they’d lit earlier.
She wasn’t aware that there were any other ways to heat the place. They had spoken little before she fell asleep. They had things to do. That, and the two of them were utterly exhausted.
Darting out of the bedroom, she made it to the en suite before embarrassing disaster struck. She hadn’t turned a light on for fear she would wake the man who desperately needed sleep. Staying awake, alert, and functional for as long as Fink had was unnatural. He deserved a good rest.
Where she’d had intermittent naps throughout the day, he kept vigilant. Hopefully, he’d teach her how to do that one day. Pulling all-nighters seemed like a vital skill for a killer to have.
Having completed her business and washed her hands, she faced a conundrum. What to do now? She wasn’t tired anymore. Being thoroughly rested meant that if she returned to the bed, she’d be bored. Which would lead to her struggling to fall back to sleep and would inevitably wake Fink.
None of which appealed to her.
That meant she could either sit in the darkness and stare at him while he slept—there was nothing creepy about that at all—or she could roam around the house and do her best not to snoop.
Invading his privacy wasn’t high on her to-do list. This felt like his sanctuary.
She didn’t want to do anything to disturb that.
From what she’d seen of the place, it didn’t have a television.
There was a radio, but again, waking him was not her plan.
What the hell was she supposed to do? Considering this was his fortress of solitude, board games were unlikely.
They required more than one person. According to him, he was a lone wolf. Until now.
Maybe she could find a deck of cards. She could play solitaire until she succumbed to boredom and passed out again.
Perhaps she could rummage through his cabinets and make him breakfast with the sunrise. That was what he’d done when he’d stayed at her place. She supposed she could repay the favor.
Except she wasn’t a cook. She had no recipes memorized.
Even if he had a fully stocked kitchen, she wouldn’t know what to do.
Maybe she could find a box of pancake mix.
If it had directions on the box, she could make it.
Without a phone and internet access, she couldn’t exactly Google how to make waffles.
Given the secludedness of this place, she doubted there was much in the way of cell service or internet out here. Though, considering her cell sat on a table back home, states away, all of this was pointless to consider.
For the love of all that was holy, what was she supposed to do while he slept? Something! Anything but stay put with nothing but her thoughts to keep her company.
Tiptoeing, she did her best not to disturb him as she exited and closed the door behind her. Glancing around the small hallway, she noted there were four more rooms on the upstairs floor.
It wasn’t snooping if she didn’t go through drawers. She was merely exploring. They weren’t the same.
Satisfied with her justification, she opened every door. The first was a linen closet filled with the fluffiest towels she had ever felt against her skin. This confirmed her suspicion. Fink understood and appreciated luxury. That was something she could get behind.
In the next room, she discovered it to be a small office. On the massive desk sat a large monitor and an actual desktop. She couldn’t believe anyone still had one of those. How old was it? It had to be an antique. Perhaps there was internet here after all.
Generic paintings hung on the wall of bears in the woods and landscapes. They didn’t feel personal. She doubted he was the artist behind them, but the images gave off a cozy vibe. There wasn’t a trophy, a framed photograph, or anything private. Just utility.
Interesting.
Though, Sydney assumed the same could be said about her. She had few belongings in her house. At least none that spoke of connections to other people. She had books and some mementos from her life, but she, too, could be cozy but impersonal.
Perhaps their similarities were why she was comfortable in the cabin—with Fink. Deep down, they were essentially the same person.
Nodding to herself, she headed down the hall and stumbled upon another full bathroom. Useful. Which meant there was one space left to explore.
What would be on the other side of that door? Would she find some deep, dark secret Fink kept? Could he secretly be a porcelain doll collector? She glanced over her shoulder toward the bedroom he occupied.
Imagine that.
This fantastic guy, who murdered people for a living, could be the same person who amassed a massive number of Barbies or something. The room could be decked out in that obnoxiously bright pink.
She snickered to herself at the absurdity. In reality, she was more likely to run into an area full of torture devices. Cocking her head to the side, she considered what it would be like to stumble upon Fink’s red room of kinks. That would be kind of cool.
With her hand on the knob, she took a deep breath and braced herself for whatever was on the other side.
Twisting it, she closed her eyes and pushed it open, ready to reveal Fink’s deepest, darkest secret.
One lid lifted. She took a peek, and holy hell.
Using both of her eyes, she surveyed the space and cautiously stepped inside.
This was not expected.
Every wall had a bookshelf. Which was chock-full of texts. Big ones, small ones, thin ones, thick ones. A library. Fink had a library. Against the wall, below the window, sat a well-worn leather sofa with massive cushions and a floor lamp dangling over it.
It beckoned her, and who was Sydney to deny such a comfy-looking couch?
Still taking in the room’s magnificence, she wandered inside, wondering what type of stories drew Fink in.
Were they historical? Biographies? Could he be the Holy Grail?
Would he be the kind of guy to read smutty books like her?
Snickering to herself, she plopped down onto the sofa and immediately groaned. She’d never sat in anything as divine as this. Running her fingers along the brown leather, she marveled at the craftsmanship.
There was something to be said for a man who collected books. What was he reading lately, anyway? On the windowsill behind the couch, she found one lone book. A metal feather hung out of it, marking where he’d left off.
Sucking in her lip, a surge of mischievousness burst through her. Technically, she hadn’t snooped. Though this was cutting it damn close.
By inviting herself into this space without his consent, she would learn details about him he wasn’t ready to tell her.
Which was wrong, but damn, it felt too good to stop.
Tracing her fingers over the back of the book, she lifted it, ready to discover a smidgeon of information about Fink that he had yet to reveal.