Chapter 4 #2
“Dammit.” I fumbled along the wall to the sink switch.
Click. Still nothing. The hair on the back of my neck bristled as I turned back toward the hall.
Even the yellow glow from my bedroom had vanished, leaving only the faint wash of streetlight and moonlight reaching across my floor.
My heart started to thud in a slow, ugly rhythm. The kind that meant panic was loading.
“Hello, Sloane.”
Panic flashed white-hot behind my eyes. My hand trembled toward the drawer beside me, easing it open just enough to slip inside, feeling blindly across the cool bottom.
“You won’t find your pepper spray there.” The voice curled through the darkness, followed by a laugh that echoed off empty spaces.
Fuck. I miss my gun.
My chin shook. “Who—who are you?”
A soft “hmph” floated through the darkness.
I swore that I could hear him smirk in the darkness.
The streetlight outside cast just enough of a glow through the window to sketch his outline against the wall.
Under six feet. Shoulders that stretched his jacket.
The tap of dress shoes against hardwood as he shifted his weight.
The rustle of fabric as his hand disappeared into a pocket, then the smooth glide of fingers across his chin.
No scratching sound. No stubble. Just skin against skin.
Was it the same voice I’d heard through phone static and voice modulators?
I couldn’t be sure, but I guessed it was.
I had no idea who he was. What his name was, or what he looked like.
Now, he was only three feet away. Close enough to touch, but I still didn’t have any answers.
I wanted to lunge. I wanted to run. I did neither.
Freezing had saved me once before. I hated that I still remembered.
“I wanted to make sure you’re doing what you agreed to. Nothing more.”
I replied with an obnoxious snort. The corner of my mouth twitched.
“Is something funny?” He moved closer, his features shrouded in the darkness. I bumped against the edge of the sink, gripping the cold porcelain.
“No.” My gaze flicked to the butcher block on the counter. Three steps away. The handle of my santoku knife jutted out. “I’m doing exactly what you forced me to do.”
This wasn’t the first time he’d found me. The first message had come weeks ago. One sentence, one photo, one threat that made my blood run cold. I’d said yes because I didn’t have a choice. Tonight wasn’t a new trap.
He stepped closer, cologne mixing with the mint gum on his breath. “Do not get emotionally involved with Hal Whitney. Fuck him all you want.”
“I will.” I bit down so hard I tasted the pressure in my back teeth.
“You know the agreement.”
My stomach sank, cold and heavy.
“Get close to Whitney, when I check in again, report back to me.” He paused, allowing his order to sink in. “That’s if you ever want to see …” He punctuated his sentence with a dark, evil laugh.
Something cracked behind my ribs. The room tilted. Rage hit first, then grief, because I didn’t know which one I was supposed to prepare for.
“Alive or dead?” The words scraped my throat. I hated myself for asking it like that. Like I could handle either answer.
I fucking couldn’t.
His weight shifted. The floorboard beneath him creaked.
“Get me what I want, and I’ll let you know.”
My fingernails dug half-moons into my palms. Every answer he gave circled the truth without ever touching it.
“Why Hal Whitney?” The question slipped out before I could stop it. Hal was the only thread that felt solid.
“I ask the questions.”
Of course. People like him always did. Control was their favorite language.
The darkness between us seemed to thicken, swallow any sound.
“It appears he’s walking and talking just fine.”
“Yup. And fucking just fine too.” One of these days my smart-ass mouth was going to get me in big trouble.
I heard a low rumble. “We’ll see how that mouth serves you soon enough. You have a job. Do it or you’ll wish you’d never met me.”
“Already there.” I crossed my arms tight against the chill spreading through my chest. His footsteps whispered across the floor, away from me.
I froze, ears straining for the sound that meant safety.
When the doorknob finally clicked, my lungs emptied in a rush.
Light flooded the room, stabbing my eyes.
And still I couldn’t make sense of what I’d just lived through.
My knees tried to fold. I locked them. I refused to collapse in my own kitchen.
In three quick strides, I reached the door. I traced the doorframe, finding the lock unbroken. Home Depot. First thing tomorrow. This time it would be two locks. Maybe three. One additional piece of flimsy metal wouldn’t help me sleep.
It wouldn’t be enough. But I needed to believe in something.
My legs trembled as I moved to the fridge. The hum sounded too loud in the silence.
The house felt suspended. Waiting.
I listened for footsteps. For breathing. For the soft click of a door settling.
Nothing.
I yanked the door open with enough force to rattle the condiment bottles inside. Cold air spilled out and kissed my ankles.
A scream tore from me at what waited inside the fridge. My legs gave out as the walls closed in. The pale-yellow paint rippled and warped as it pressed closer, suffocating me with the weight of a thousand invisible hands against my chest.