OLIVIA
“Ow. Crap.”
Wriggling through an air vent wasn’t as easy as the movies made it seem.
John McClane lied to me. The vent was dusty and tight, and the only way I managed to move at all was by thrusting upwards like a worm, my arms trapped uselessly by my sides.
Every inch gained was a punishment to my sinuses. I sneezed so hard that I saw Jesus.
Note to self: clean air vents at home.
Not that I planned to do this ever again. I wasn’t someone who broke into houses. I was a nice, normal, preppy cheerleader with a stable boyfriend and a trust fund. Or at least, I used to be.
I hadn’t picked up the pom-poms in a few months, hadn’t tumbled or cheered for anything other than reruns of The Bachelor.
That stable boyfriend was being a total dick, which was usually my type except that he’d doubled down on the dickery lately.
I’d drained my bank account to fund this crusade, and the prevailing hope that I’d finally escape my parents’ toxic scrutiny was becoming a distant dream.
Still, I had no regrets yet. In fact, I couldn’t believe I’d even made it this far.
I kept expecting the universe to screw me over.
But that skeevy fisherman I’d bribed this morning hadn’t chopped me up like white girl sushi.
That dingy boat he owned hadn’t sailed into a random storm and sunk.
Not even the alarm system around the mansion had tripped yet.
It was probably temporary, the calm before the storm.
Thank god Salvadore had been in London for that art show. Every second counted, and I needed all the time I could to search his house.
Everything about the old guy was suspicious.
A billionaire who lived on a remote island.
Never married, never had kids. The public dubbed him a recluse, one of those artsy types who actively snubbed interviews and shirked away from politics.
He didn’t do charity work, didn’t rub shoulders with the elite, or mingle with high society.
Not that I blamed him for that—I hated the circles more than anything—but it made tracking him down way more difficult.
It seemed impossible that someone like him could have ever crossed paths with Molly, a diligent twenty-two-year-old college student.
It wasn’t like Molly ever took an interest in art.
She never painted or took up photography, and never mentioned Salvadore as a potential patron to showcase her pieces.
Molly was a law student. She was dry, boring, and practical, just the way my parents liked it.
It wasn’t in her nature to rebel. And yet, somehow, she was convinced to travel five thousand miles away from home to a remote island without telling a single soul.
Molly, the same person who couldn’t swallow a single mouthful of yogurt without scrutinizing the fat content.
How did they meet? How did she get here?
What did he do to her?
My head smacked into metal. I froze, the sound reverberating like a gunshot all around me. I’d reached the end. Drawing on my superior flexibility, I freed one arm and used my body's momentum to punch through the grille. It popped out with surprising ease, clattering loudly to the ground below.
My backpack went next. Once it dropped, I wriggled through the opening and tucked-flipped to the ground. My fists shot up like muscle memory, a perfect high V.
Goooooo me!
Huffing at my own ridiculousness, I smoothed down my hair and tugged on my shirt to remove the creases. I was covered in dust and grime from the boat, but it didn’t matter. I’d actually done it. I’d broken in.
Unable to shake my pessimism, I looked around warily.
I expected to end up somewhere terrifying, like a torture room.
Instead, I found myself in the pantry. High shelves stacked with canned goods and pickled condiments, giant sacks of flour, salt, and sugar in the corners.
It made sense; he couldn’t exactly make a quick pit stop at his local Walmart.
I still eyed the jars suspiciously, half expecting to find pickled organs or a perfectly preserved fetus.
My hands were shaking when I reached the door.
I opened it slowly. But no bodies fell out.
No human meat locker or table full of bloody surgical instruments.
Just a normal, windowless service corridor. I exhaled in relief. So far, so good.
I crept soundlessly down the corridor until I came to a pretty spiral staircase made of solid wood with ornate iron banisters. I peered upwards through the cavity and counted three floors. Then I looked down at the basement below.
Big fat nope.
I didn’t like horror movies, and I was secure enough in myself to admit that I wouldn’t last very long. I wasn’t the Final Girl. I was the girl who got killed in the first ten minutes, probably wearing a skimpy bikini and forgetting how to run without tripping over every possible obstacle.
Shuddering, I climbed up to the next landing and found myself in a bright atrium connecting the two main living areas. No doubt the architect wanted to maximize the ocean's views and natural light—instead, I felt like I was caught in a petri dish.
A pretty foreign invader.
Unnerved, I took out the switchblade I’d bought from the gas station.
There was still a plastic film on the blade, which I removed with a loud rip.
Then I continued up the stairs. The top floor was bright and airy, with natural wood paneling and large skylights that created incriminating spotlights.
For an art dealer, he had a surprisingly rudimentary collection: a few portraits of beautiful landscapes, some abstract pieces with natural undertones like clays and browns.
I was no art critic, but I could appreciate the consistency of theme.
The master bedroom gave me an itchy feeling. It was perfectly innocuous, tidy, and clean. But it still felt like the ultimate violation.
I thought of my own bedroom—the gentle pink and white hues, the mantle of cheer trophies and ribbons, the dozens of scented candles that had become like a vigil to Molly.
I had a beloved soft teddy collection that Heath, my dickish ex-boyfriend, liked to pin down and hump because he had the emotional maturity of a sock.
I was glad I’d dumped him. It was a bit pathetic that I’d cried over it. Heath had accused me of milking my depression. I’d retaliated by throwing my favorite lamp at his head. A blistering argument later, I’d called it off. Part of me still dwelled on what he said, the scrap of truth in it.
I had been stuck on Molly for two years. Trapped by the unknown, held hostage to the grizzly possibilities that ran rampant in my head. That was why I’d finally decided to do something about it.
I was going to put my demons to rest, even if it meant uncovering them first.
Starting with Salvadore.
Fighting off the icks, I raided his nightstands. They were completely empty, which was strange. Just dust and lint balls. I did a cursory check under the bed—nothing. Not even a stray sock.
It was like a hotel room. Cold, impersonal.
The wardrobe proved just as disheartening—shirts ironed and sorted by color, shoes polished on the racks, a monogrammed bathrobe on the back of the door, slippers slotted neatly beneath it.
By pure luck, I found the secret compartment with his expensive watches and accessories. I stared at the collection pensively.
Was I petty enough to steal from him? I knew my morals had become wonky lately. I’d done some pretty sketchy things to get where I needed.
Groaning, I pushed the compartment shut. Not even a full second later, I yanked it back open and stuffed a watch and two diamond cufflinks into my backpack. Molly’s judgmental face hovered in my mind. Thief, she said. Karma, I snapped back.
With the main bedroom yielding no results, I moved on to the ensuite. The shower was enormous, all exposed rock and two hanging showerheads. The countertops were lined with expensive colognes and lotions, a solitary toothbrush, a ceramic plate with folded towels, and hand soaps.
“This guy screams American Psycho,” I murmured aloud, catching myself in the reflection.
As predicted, my skin had bronzed under the sun, my honey-blonde hair frizzy where it swung in my high ponytail.
My lips were chapped from the salty sea air.
I shopped the lotions consideringly, then quickly dismissed putting anything on my body that had touched his.
On habit, I found Molly in the gray-blue of my eyes, the roundness of my face.
We’d been mistaken as twins when we were younger, but her late teens had been kind to her.
She’d grown a foot taller, her face had become sharper, and her lips fuller.
She’d been offered modeling jobs by small labels, who described her look as “girl-next-door with an edge”.
I was still waiting for my own glow up—I desperately wanted to lose the baby fat that clung to my face—but I feared the grief had stunted me.
My eyes were a bit too sunken, the lines a bit too deep.
I was still a ruthless gymnast, and I kept it tight, but the late nights and caffeine addiction were catching up to me.
I drank guilt smoothies, so I wouldn’t die from scurvy or malnutrition, but looking after myself had become an afterthought.
Mouth twisting in disdain, I continued my search of the top landing. A sitting room that looked like it belonged in a showroom. A small study nook with personalized letterheads: Theodore Salvadore. Black pens only. A collection of limited-edition encyclopedias.
A shiver of unease traveled up my spine.
Everything was too perfect. Too pristine.
The feeling lingered, an uncomfortable knot twisting in my stomach.
Scratching the back of my neck, I glanced nervously over my shoulder.
Shafts of green-tinged sunlight siphoned through the skylights, the trapped dust swirling at my intrusion.
I felt like prey. Exposed, out in the open plains.
Observed.
Gripping my knife harder, I returned to the main bedroom so I could peek through the window that overlooked the front of the mansion. So focused on my destination, I didn’t clock the shadow until it was too late.
A force barreled into me, toppling me onto the bed.
My mouth went dry as bone, my body lashing out instinctively in terror.
A hand caught my flailing fist, pinning it next to my head.
My knife was plucked from my fingers in one seamless motion.
Then the weight shifted, trapping my insurgent legs and my hips to the mattress.
The air was punched out of my lungs.
“Stop,” a voice commanded drily in my ear.
Mindless with panic, I obeyed. A man hovered over me.
To my fear-sharpened eyes, he appeared in stark definition: dark hair and pale skin, vivid green eyes above a black face bandana with white roses.
A glint of silver on his eyebrow. A very faint spatter of freckles across his nose, just above the cloth.
I had a funny suspicion he wasn’t the handyman.
His grip tightened on my wrists, my fingers pulsing at the lack of blood. “Who are you?”
“I…” God, my mind was blank. I couldn’t form the words, couldn’t think beyond the white rush of fear.
He lifted up onto his knees, straddling my hips. What I could see of his expression was disturbing. Blank, empty. We could’ve been discussing the weather.
“Nobody,” I gasped out. “I’m—nobody.”
His pierced brow twitched up in vague interest. “You don’t look like a maid. No cute uniform.”
I said nothing, just floundered like a fish.
His head cocked, eyes still cold and pitiless. I wondered if he was smiling beneath the cloth, and that disturbed me even more. “I see. Just a pest then.”
Alarm bells rang in my head. He sounded bored, like I was something easily removed. Exterminated.
I bucked my hips violently. The tightness of my shorts was painful, cutting into my thighs.
His own thighs were like steel bands, trapping me between them.
The way he moved was purposeful, anticipating each wild thrust of my hips so we wouldn’t make unnecessary contact.
Relying on pure muscle memory, I hooked my leg around his waist and flipped us.
Then I was on top, straddling him, and his eyes flashed dangerously before he snapped upright and tackled me off the bed.
My head thudded hard against the floor, carpet burning against my bare skin.
His weight was suddenly overwhelming, crushing me to the floor.
“Get off me!” I hissed.
To my surprise, he instantly obeyed. He snapped upright, keeping his leather-gloved hands locked on my wrists so I had no choice but to move with him. Facing each other, I realized he had at least an extra foot on me. But that wasn’t the disturbing part.
The disturbing part was how ridiculously fit he was.
I still aimed my shoe at his balls.
He shifted back, easily avoiding it without releasing me. In one swift motion, he flipped me around, my back to his chest, my backpack squashed in between us. Leather-gloved fingers wrapped around my throat.
“Upstairs,” he said.
My throat convulsed around his cruel fingers. “We’re already upstairs.”
Fabric brushed my temple. “I wasn’t talking to you.”
My breath caught. There were more of them. I was outnumbered. Trapped. Alone.
A terrible, terrible thought burrowed into my brain. Was this how Molly felt? I wanted to scream. As if sensing it, the hand on my throat squeezed.
Blood pounded in my ears. It wasn’t enough to drown out the unmistakable sound of approaching footsteps.
And then he walked in.