Chapter Eleven
Abigail
Another day alone in the penthouse. It had been two weeks since I'd shown up in Jacob's office, desperate for help. By now, I was settled in and almost used to living with Jacob.
If by ‘used to’ you meant I was less bothered by the fact that I had no idea what to expect from him. Jacob was unpredictable.
He hadn't been lying when he said he had a wide range of sexual interests. So far, all of them had worked out well for me, so I wasn't complaining.
Unfortunately, after two weeks, I was beginning to get just the tiniest bit stir crazy. I was safe here. Safe in a way that I hadn't been since my father had died.
For the first time in four years, I didn't have to worry about my mother. Not true. I always worried about my mother. She was sick, and there was nothing I could do to make her better.
The grief never mellowed. In my mind, I understood her disease. My heart only saw the mother I loved, alive but lost to me.
The only thing I could do was make sure she was cared for, and while I'd been doing that since my father had died, these last weeks with Jacob was the first time I felt good about it.
With John, I'd been free to leave our home, to see friends, to have a social life, and to visit my mother. Yet, for every second of our marriage, even the good ones, I'd felt horribly trapped.
Forced into a mold I didn't want to fill, forced to smile about the subversion of my life, terrified anyone would find out how much I resented the position I was in.
I'd been raised to be the wife of a man like John, or more truthfully, the wife of a man like Jacob, but it hadn't been what I'd wanted for myself.
I'd wanted to be a teacher. Those dreams seemed so innocent and far away. Some days, I felt ancient and far too defiled to teach children anything.
With Jacob, it was the opposite. Yes, I was constrained by my role as his pet. But so far, it was a role I didn't mind playing.
I enjoyed his company, and while he didn't treat me like a girlfriend, I wasn't sure I wanted him to anyway. In his own way, he was warm and affectionate, and he definitely appreciated my presence.
Other than making myself available to have sex with him and making dinner when he ate at home, he didn't expect that much from me. I certainly didn't mind having sex with him.
Understatement of the century. And I loved to cook. Especially for someone who didn't micro-manage every meal or criticize my choices.
I knew Jacob had grown up on an estate in Buckhead with a kitchen staff. While he enjoyed gourmet food and had probably been eating it since the cradle, he was just as happy with pot roast or spaghetti and meatballs.
He put in plenty of time in the gym on top of meeting his brothers and cousins for racquetball or a pickup game of basketball, so he wasn't worried about calories.
I had more orgasms than I could handle and free reign in the kitchen, and when Jacob wasn't home, I could do whatever I wanted. As long as I didn't leave the penthouse.
That was the sticking point.
Jacob's home was huge. I'd done some research on my shiny new laptop and had discovered that I was living in Winters House, a historic building Jacob had purchased almost 10 years ago—he must have still been in college—and renovated into luxury condos with office space and retail on the first floor.
I'd learned his younger brother and a cousin owned condos a few floors down, but Jacob's was the only one that occupied an entire floor to itself. It was massive. Still, it was starting to feel like a cage, and I was frustrated with myself for being so restless.
There was nothing I could do about it until the situation with Big John was resolved. According to Jacob, he'd been looking for me, but quietly. Unless Big John gave up or made a move overt enough to shut him down, we were stuck in a waiting game.
I was in the kitchen, putting together the ingredients for a chicken pot pie and wondering if Jacob would let me use the rooftop garden I'd read about, when I heard it.
At first, it was barely more than a whisper of noise. I'm not sure I heard footsteps so much as got a sense of something moving outside the penthouse door.
I froze, my stomach turning to ice in a heartbeat, reminding me that, as comfortable as I was with Jacob, danger was still far too close. It was mid-afternoon, far too early for Jacob to be home.
Carefully, silently, I set the rolling pin I was using for the piecrust down on the countertop and dusted my hands off on a dishtowel, my ears straining for the tiniest sound by the door.
Rustling. A thump. A scratching sound. Crinkling, like paper. Innocuous sounds. At least, not sounds that were overtly threatening. My lungs tight, almost lightheaded with fear, I knew that as subtle as they were, the sounds were wrong.
The only two people who should be at that door were Rachel or Jacob, and either of them would either ring the bell or let themselves in.
Someone was out there who shouldn't be. I forced myself to inch out of the kitchen and into the hallway leading to the foyer, where I'd have a view of the front door.
It looked normal. The handle wasn't twisting and turning as if someone was trying to get in. The deadbolt was still engaged. But, those sounds. More rustling, and that crinkling, scraping.
My terrified brain decided to get back in gear. I had to call Jacob.
Where was the phone? Where the hell had I left the phone? I almost never used it, and Jacob texted more than he called, so I didn't keep it right at my side.
I stood there, feet glued to the floor, eyes focused on the front door, racking my brain for the last place I'd had the phone.
Not the kitchen. My room. I'd had it in my room that morning.
I took a step away from the door and froze again. A brown shadow pushed under the door.
Every horror movie I'd ever seen of murderous ghosts and deadly phantoms oozing beneath closed doors flashed through my mind as I stared, transfixed with terror at the site of that dark shape sliding into the foyer of Jacob's penthouse.
It pushed further, slowly, twisting side to side as if struggling to pull itself beneath the door. Abruptly, its progress stopped. There was another rustle on the other side of the door.
Then nothing. Silence. Stillness. Whatever it was, it was gone, leaving the envelope behind.
The foyer lights were off, and without any windows in the space, it was dim even on a bright day. That was my excuse for imagining fantastical explanations for a plain brown envelope slipped under the door.
It took a few minutes, that felt like hours, before I summoned the courage to move forward and turn on the light in the foyer.
When I did, I felt like an idiot. It was just an envelope. It was unusual that someone had pushed an envelope beneath Jacob's door when the floor was supposed to be secure.
No one should be able to take the elevator to the penthouse level. But he did have a brother and a cousin living in the building. He hadn't said so, but I assumed they had access. Maybe they just didn't want to bother him in the office.
Or maybe, that envelope didn't have to do with Jacob at all. Maybe it had to do with me. I didn't want to believe Big John's people could infiltrate Jacob's security. I knew better than to think I was safe just because I felt safe.
Big John got what he wanted. When something fixed itself in his mind, he could be relentless. He wasn't Jacob Winters, but he was powerful. Too powerful.
If he'd found me . . . I lurched forward, my limbs stiff with fear, forced into action as the terror of not knowing eclipsed my instinctive reluctance to touch that invading envelope, its plain brown paper so out of place against the rich colors of the hardwood floor and rug in the foyer of Jacob’s penthouse.
I leaned forward to snatch it off the floor and retreated—scurried—back to the safety of the kitchen, berating myself for my cowardice the whole way.
Back in the kitchen, with bright sunlight streaming through the tall windows and the white cabinets gleaming, the brown 8.
5 by 11 envelope, sealed with a single piece of transparent tape, didn't look as threatening.
Before I could think twice about it, I slid a finger beneath the flap and opened it.
A picture slid out, floating between my fingers to land, face up, on the granite countertop. My eyes widened in confusion as I stared at it.
This had nothing to do with me. I didn't even know what I was looking at, only that it was horrible. It looked like a crime scene photograph, except that somehow, it didn't, but I couldn't put my finger on what was wrong with it.
Two figures lay sprawled on the floor, both obviously dead. I didn't recognize them.
The woman was the focus of the photograph, the man's body off to the side as if an afterthought. They both had bullet wounds, his a neat hole in his forehead, hers in the center of her chest.
She lay on a Persian carpet that reminded me of the carpets in Jacob's penthouse, her hand flung over her head, white blonde hair spread around her like spilled water.
I reached for the photograph to take a closer look, then snatched my hand back. I'd touched the envelope. Stupid. Now my fingerprints were on it. I hadn't touched the photograph though.
I didn't know what the picture was, didn't know who might've delivered it, or why. But looking at the photograph of those two dead bodies, I knew there was no good reason it should be here. Backing away, feeling a little sick, I went to get my phone.
I'd never called Jacob in the middle of the day. He answered on the second ring, his tone impatient. "What is it?"
"I–I think you should come up here. Something—" I realized I didn't know what to say.
"What happened? What's wrong?" he demanded.
"Something was delivered," I said. "I think you need to see it."