Chapter Six
Ava Anderson
The days have continued to drag on. I can’t do anything, can’t go anywhere at all. And that only serves to make me even more irate than usual. I understand why this is happening, why I can’t go out, or do anything, but I just can’t stand it. I can’t! It’s driving me crazy.
I don’t know how long I can stay like this, with all the angst and pent-up anger inside of me. And it’s not just because he won’t let me out of the house. It was a combination of things, and that’s just one of them.
The fact that we’ve been together before seems to creep into my head at the worst possible moments. At the wrong times. I could be in the kitchen cooking, and I’d find that I was thinking back to that room and that night.
I haven’t been with anyone else since that night. But I know that’s not the reason why I’m irritated. It isn’t .
It’s been days since the incident with my brakes, and the official verdict is in. They were cut, and neatly too. Wade and the police officers say that there is no doubt about it. This was most definitely a sabotage.
But there’s nothing to be done right now, and so I must stay locked up in the house with this man. I had to admit, he’d saved my life, but that was mostly all there was to it. The man didn’t have to act like I was a damn prisoner in my own home, for god’s sakes.
And then there was the other part of this-the fact that I did not know if he alone was enough to protect me.
He’s the best bodyguard in the United States. I remember what they’d said, but he is still only one man. That is all that he is, regardless of how good they think he is at this. When I look at it that way, it makes sense that I’m not exactly completely comfortable with this arrangement. But there’s nothing I can do now, and a part of me realizes that saying anything to the contrary would just reek of entitlement and make me look like an ingrate to the police. I, at least, have enough social awareness to know when something is wrong, and right. I couldn’t possibly let any of these thoughts show, only hope that he can do the job well.
For instance, I know at least that his devices are in place around the house, and that means that there is a high chance that we will find out if anybody gets too close to the house. Maybe, just maybe that’s why I haven’t been attacked yet, even though a small dying part of me still wants to desperately cling to the hope that this is all a coincidence. I mean, I hadn’t driven that car out in weeks before the incident, and I’d only left the house because I felt so very stifled. But that looks unlikely, and each time I consider it, seems to just be me wanting to believe there isn’t someone out there trying to make me dead .
It is a lot to deal with. To believe. That someone I don’t know wants me dead.
I get distracted from my reverie by the sound of his movement in the kitchen, and I figure he’s making himself some lunch. And that is something that seems to have gone out of my hands, and expectations as well. Through the last couple of weeks, he’s been the one going out to get groceries from the store, and out of his own pocket too. I would be thankful, seeing as I can’t work and have no way to keep us going in this indefinite stretch of time before the killer was found, but instead, all I felt was resentment. Resentment at the fact that he got to go out, and I was forced to remain indoors. He literally locked me inside the house when he went, and then came back bearing bags of groceries which he set on the table mysteriously.
If I didn’t know better, I would have thought he expected to be praised for it. But by now, I’ve seen enough to know that he just does it because it’s his job, and nothing more.
I walk into the kitchen, and see that Wade is making himself a sandwich, which automatically triggers my hunger. It’s my house , I think to myself, and I would have been able to provide for us if none of this had happened, so I moved over to stand beside him at the counter, watching him layer his meal with cheese and a slice of beef.
I stand there for a few seconds, waiting for him to take notice of my presence in the room. When he does, it’s to give me a sidelong glance that is appraising of my appearance. I have come to know and detest that look. He wants to know if my presence requires his speaking, or if he can just ignore me.
Not this time, Mister. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something, and it’s really important. ”
“What’s that?” Cooper asks, placing the finished sandwich onto a plate. Just as he is about to return the bread and the cheese, beef packets, I reach for them with a shake of my head. There’s no need for me to be extra with my actions, but I can’t help it. I just have to annoy him these days, I’m afraid.
The man looks at me askance but ultimately hands it over to me and that settles it.
“Well, I just wondered if you shouldn’t be asking the captain for some backup here.” I say, making my own spread.
It’s fascinating to see him hold on to the plate, knowing that he’s not eating because he’s talking to me. Sometimes, I wonder what it was that had made him this stiff and unpliable. But that’s usually only a few moments before I realize that he’d been a different person the night I met him. Which always sinks home the lesson even further. I’m simply his current principal and he’s just doing his job, as far as he’s concerned.
“What do you mean? Backup for what?” He asks me. “Why would I need backup?”
I shrug, but my brows are raised in an expression that I’m sure conveys my surprise at his cluelessness. “I mean, you might need help. You’re just one man, and I don’t think you’d be able to do everything, even if you’re very good at your job.”
My hands instinctively make the air quotes as I finish, and then I kind of regret it. Everything I do these days seems to come across as—no, I know for a fact that my actions are passive-aggressive. That’s not the issue here, cognizance. Instead, it’s being able to get it under control and finding a way to not continue alienating this man who is the only thing between me and sure death that’s proving elusive. If only he would react a bit more often, perhaps I would be able to cope with the oppressive atmosphere that my home has become.
Wade is smiling at me after he’s finished processing what I have to say, which is another sort of annoyance in itself. For instance, there’s the fact that he processes my thoughts so that he can dismiss them, I can tell.
“You’re as safe as you could ever get, Miss.” he says to me, and I don’t know how to feel about that.
“Why do you think that? And why do you never say more than you need to?” I ask, looking at him. “You are always so short and gruff when we talk, and I’m trying to understand why.”
“Well, for one thing, I was of the opinion that you detest my presence.” He says, but this time the smile has left, and he has on a serious expression.
“It just gets frustrating that you make all the decisions around here, you tell me what to do in such a direct manner without explaining it at all. That’s hard to understand, why you do it.”
“I just find it easier to say more with less.”
I study his face for a brief moment, but there’s hardly anything in there that gives me a clue as to what he may be thinking. Sometimes, even though I don’t like him too much, I tend to care for what he’s feeling sometimes.
Just then, a random thought crosses my mind, and I think to ask again, “What about the text I got? Are there any leads on it yet? ”
“None yet, but I have them working on it, and we should know something in a couple of days.”
“Okay,” Just then, I got a text from one of my friends, and apparently it’s an invitation to a party. But I know that I can’t go. Wade won’t allow it. But I still decided to ask.
“Hey, Aileen just invited me out to a party with friends,” I say. “Do you think I could go?”
“No, you can’t.” He says to me. “You’ll have to reject it, I’m sorry.”
I wish there was a way I could get to him because he seemed hell-bent on making sure that I don’t leave the house, and for any reason whatsoever.
Then I catch sight of Wade studying me, and I wonder why. I don’t ask though, just let him see how much I resent the fact that he’s never taken the time to talk to me about quite a number of things.
“Okay, I’ll check the place first, before deciding if we should do this.” Wade says gently, as if he is considering because of how I look. “What do you think?” I ask.
“Really?” I say. “You will do this for me? I can really go?”
“After I check it out and I’m comfortable with how the place looks. Then I’ll decide after that. I don’t particularly buy this idea, but I can tell how much you want to leave the house. So, I can do this for you.”
I gasp in excitement and thanks, before looking down at the floor. When I look back at him, it’s with gratitude.
“Why?” I ask, because I don’t believe it.
“Because it looks like it means a lot to you. Plus, I understand that I might be better at coping with being in here all day, but that doesn’t mean that it’s the same for you. I understand how it feels to be stuck, so I will see about this.”
“Thank you.” I say, and I give him a smile—one of the only times it’s ever been genuine. And that’s the truth of it. Never have I felt this much goodwill toward him.
“You still going to make that sandwich?” Wade asks me, and I smile before looking up at him.
“Yeah, I am.” I say and pick up the plate he’s passing me so I can place my bread on it.
Then I begin to slather mayonnaise onto it. I’m still there at the counter, but he leaves before I can continue the conversation, walking out of the kitchen while I’m left to ponder what has just happened.