Details that no longer mattered.
My employment wasn’t going to change, and I couldn’t wait six months to get out of here.
“I should make you drink that fucking vomit!” Dean yelled.
As my eyes filled with tears, it felt like my chest was caving in.
That my body was sinking into the springy mattress and it wasn’t letting me go.
I needed freedom.
I needed to be far away from Dean and my mom.
But unless I wanted to sleep in my car—something I swore I would never do again after getting my first job and earning my own money—there was nowhere to go. Lex’s apartment wasn’t an option, not with how far away she lived. A hotel would be a waste of money.
I wiped my eyes, promising myself that this would somehow work out.
It had to.
There was no other choice.
And crying about something I couldn’t change was only going to keep me further away from sleeping.
I forced the knot out of my throat and any other tears from building in my eyes, and I returned to the cooking video, trying to focus on the beef Wellington the chef was preparing. I triedto visualize myself in the kitchen, standing directly next to her. With the knife in my hand—the beautiful one that Walker had gifted to me—the blade slicing through the mushrooms and shallots. And as she turned on the gas range to start sautéing the vegetables, a knob I could almost feel between my fingers, a notification came across my screen.
This one was from Instagram. Someone named Whiskey35 had liked one of my posts.
Whiskey35.
It couldn’t be a coincidence …
It had to be Walker.
My lips pulled into a smile as I tapped the notification, the exact photo that he’d liked appearing on the screen. It had been taken in the kitchen of the assisted living facility. One of my coworkers had snapped it without me knowing, and when she sent it to me, it was just too good not to post. I was rolling out dough on one of the counters to make a batch of sugar cookies. A treat that was offered to our residents during the month of December. I’d even come in early to decorate the dessert.
Beneath, for the caption, I’d put,Manifesting.
Because one day, I swore to myself, I’d be rolling out cookies for my own eatery. I’d have a place to live where I didn’t have to worry about someone banging down my door and threatening me for money. I wouldn’t have to bribe anyone’s drunk ass with more beer. I wouldn’t have to beg and plead to go into the kitchen and eat food that I’d paid for.
And everything I’d gone through would have been worth it.
I clicked on Whiskey35’s profile and learned that wasn’t just the handle, but also the name listed at the top. There was no other information. No bio, photo, followers, or following.
This was a burner account.
And it was one that hadn’t accidentally stumbled upon myprofile.
This was someone who was looking for me. Who had likely gone through my photos. And had probably, by mistake, double-tapped one.
Walker had a verified account—I followed it—and based on the content, I had a strong feeling he didn’t manage it, that his assistant did. But Whiskey35 was the perfect way to search and stalk without being found.
If he watched a story or liked a post, no one would know it was him.
No one … but me.
“These dishes need to go out right now!” Walker snapped, his voice echoing throughout the entire kitchen.
Two food runners approached and filled their hands with plates, rushing past me as they carried them toward the dining room.
