Chapter 2
TWO
brIAR, FIVE YEARS LATER
I never thought I would be this person.
But…when it comes to the choice between doing something right and moral, and surviving the next few months, I know I don’t have any options.
Know I stopped having choices years ago.
On a rainy mountaintop I thought would be the beginning of a happy life.
Instead, it became a nightmare.
My nightmare.
I adjust my gloves, know I can’t risk leaving behind even a trace of evidence that I was here.
Hating that I am here with every fucking fiber of my being.
“Just suck it up and do it,” I whisper.
Because once it’s done, I never have to set foot in this place again.
Never have to look out over the peaceful rolling hills surrounding the estate and remember, never have to walk through the gardens I spent so much time in, and wish things were different.
Never have to see rooms with the big windows and the bright, cheerful wallpaper I picked out, and hurt so deep inside.
Never have to walk up the winding staircase to the tucked away reading room where I could while away hours and hours, getting lost in fairytales I thought were my reality, and know—
My life doesn’t work out that way.
I’m not a heroine in a fairytale.
I’m just…disposable.
“Enough,” I mutter.
I tug at my beanie, making sure it completely covers my silver blonde hair. I used to love it, used to love the unique color, long and sleek and bright like moonlight, used to love the way…
He loved it.
Loved the hunger in his eyes when he would stroke his fingers through the strands, loved how it would catch on his beard when he leaned close and inhaled the scent of my shampoo, loved the way he would wrap a piece around his finger in an absentminded motion when we were in bed together, talking about everything and nothing.
Because I loved all of that so much I had brushed it obsessively, carefully detangled each and every knot. Oiled the ends. Used a protective spray every single day. Slept only on silk pillowcases.
That stopped being my life on that rainy, heartbreaking mountaintop years ago.
Afterward, I let my hair get so bad, so matted and tangled, I had to cut it all off.
And today, it’s more nuisance than asset.
It’s why I hacked away at the strands with a pair of rusty scissors I found in the dumpster behind a thrift store, cutting enough off so I could shove the rest of my hair under the beanie and the distinctive color wouldn’t give me away.
As rough as they looked, the scissors were surprisingly effective.
Then again, sometimes the best stuff never makes it to the shelves, and those discarded treasures, the items no one sees value in, are what I seek out.
Because I’m one too.
Or, at least, that’s what Brooks used to say.
My throat tightens, but I ignore it—ignore the fact that I’m one of those discarded items.
Because he didn’t see me as a treasure.
I was just trash casually tossed aside.
Slamming the lid on the past, I check again that my hair is tucked up into my knit cap, that my gloves are fully covering my hands and secured in place by the long sleeves of my black sweater.
My leggings are dark and go straight down to my ankles, an inch of which are exposed.
I scowl, even knowing I can’t do anything about that—I’m tiny, but I’m wearing another thrift store find and the children’s leggings are doing what they can.
Still, I tug them down, try to cover the slight gap of skin showing.
I know the security system.
But…I need every advantage I can get.
So blending into the shadows.
Wearing all black.
And gloves.
And tucking my hair carefully into my hat.
And hoping the distraction Angela promised to create pulls the guards away for long enough for me to slip past them.
And—
“I’m stalling,” I whisper softly. And I am.
Because the self-preservation portion of my brain can’t imagine I’m doing this. Then again, the self-preservation portion of my brain has shriveled up into nothing over the last years.
Lockpicks in my pocket.
It’s just after two in the morning, so the guards will be tired.
Along with the cloudy night, the new moon, and a diversion to pull them away?
This will be my only chance.
I squint at the screen of my analog watch—another thrift store find—then up at the house. The shadows shift slightly, and, yup, there they go, the guards pushing away from the wall, suddenly on high alert before they take off running.
I move before they disappear around the corner, knowing I have to risk it or I’ll be unable to clear the wide expanse of lawn, get inside, and grab what I need before they come back.
As it is, I barely make it before the floodlights turn on, bathing the spot where I’d been standing in bright fluorescent light.
Heart pounding, I slide between two hedges and try to slow my breathing.
My hands shake, but I clench them into fists, tightly enough to cut off circulation. Tightly enough to bruise. Tightly like I used to hold on to Brooks—
Move.
I pop out of the hedges, cursing internally when the leaves rustle.
It’s not a breezy night. There isn’t a lot of sound to disguise my movements.
I don’t stop, though. Just continue moving until I reach the shadows of the fountain and gazebo. Only then do I breathe. The cameras are focused on the entrance and exit of the maze I’m currently navigating. I can take a second, catch my breath, allow my eyes to adjust to the growing darkness.
There.
Another gap in the hedges, just wide enough for me to squeeze through.
I suck in another silent breath.
Release it.
Move.
This one is tighter, and I have to inch my way through, holding my breath at every rustle, every branch, every crackle of a leaf.
But then I’m out.
And my quarry is just ahead, the French doors of the office dark, hiding the interior of a space I know is painted a rich blue and filled with deep brown, buttery-soft leather furniture and a huge glass and mahogany desk, its gleaming surface always somehow completely free of fingerprints.
Even though Brooks isn’t one of those men who pretends to work.
He works.
Hard.
That was never in doubt.
Only, the man has to sleep sometime.
Hence why it’s two o’clock in the morning and I’m making my approach.
He’ll be in bed and—
I glance at my watch, realize I’ve nearly missed the next interval and burst forward out of the shadows of the hedges, sprinting for the huge potted palms that adorn either side of the entrance.
Not approaching the door—that will be watched on the cameras.
But instead, I move toward the trio of windows on one shadowed wall.
Ivy crawls up the old wooden frames, the glass clear enough that I can see inside, see the shadows of the leather furniture, of the…desk.
I left prints there—from my fingers, my palms, my…ass.
Prints that were cleaned off within the hour.
As though I hadn’t existed. As if what I experienced hadn’t happened.
A familiar feeling.
Pushing that aside, I tug my picks from my pocket and study the metal latches. There are sensors on the windows, but I know the one on the right swells during the summer, the heat wreaking havoc with the old wood.
The sensor is there, but the contact plate was removed long ago.
That’s my way in.
I eye the lock near the latch then select the correct pick from my set, pull out my tension wrench.
Ten seconds later, the pins in the lock have been shifted, the latch opened, and I’m sliding open the heavy sash. I haul myself in, stash away my tools, and close the window almost all the way.
My muscles are screaming from having to drag myself through the opening and my heart pounds, bile rising in my throat. Not from the exertion.
But from being here…in this room, in this place.
It’s just another scene in the nightmare that became my life.
But I don’t have time for this—for a mental breakdown, for a trip down memory lane. I need to get what I came for. Then I need to get the hell out and not look back.
Never look back.
Blowing out a silent breath, I take stock of the office.
It’s exactly the same, with the exception of the books on the shelves lining the far wall.
My breath catches, pulse speeding further.
He doesn’t read—hasn’t since the moment he got his degree. He had to force himself through too many dry tomes during his college years to ever find joy in it again…or at least, that’s what he always told me.
So seeing those shelves filled with books instead of refined masculine decor is such a dramatic change that I actually take a step in that direction, wanting to discover what the titles are.
Until I remember myself.
Focus.
Deliberately turning away, I shift behind the desk, ignoring the hint of his cologne—that hasn’t changed. The scent settles heavy on my senses as I feel for the hidden latch.
It’s been a long time and I only saw him do it a handful of times, so it isn’t easy—
Click.
The painting behind the desk slides to the side, exposing a steel safe, the black handle basically just shadows in the darkness of the office. But next to it is a silver keypad, the gleam of LEDs nearly blinding.
Throat working, I rise on tiptoe, recall the series of numbers he didn’t bother to hide from me, and begin punching them in.
It’s been years.
It’s likely this won’t work, that all of this prep and waiting and sneaking will be for naught.
That the code has been changed and—
Two-six-nine-five. Enter.
The lights on the keypad turn green and there’s a soft click.
“Holy shit,” I whisper and reach for the handle…
Right as an arm winds tightly around my middle and yanks me back against a hard, strong chest.
And I hear Brooks growl,
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”