Because if I don’t, I’m trapped in a deserted mansion on an island with nowhere left to run.
FOUR
THE KEYHOLE
You crossed the threshold, dripping excitement and rain, pretending you’re not afraid.
Now you pace your new cage. You caress the velvet curtains like they’re the hairs on my chest, test the locks as if they might offer you protection.
Foolish girl. There will be no barriers between you and I. No escape.
You peel off your clothes, trembling with desire, shivering with need. Don’t you know satisfaction is mere inches away?
Crawl beneath the covers, my little pet. They offer no sanctuary. Close your eyes, I’ll still be there.
Your fear is exquisite. It lingers in the corners, seeps into the floorboards, rises from your skin in delectable waves.
Pretend you’re alone. Pretend you’re safe. This is only the beginning.
Sleep, Annalisa. I’ll be watching through the keyhole. Always.
FIVE
The thought of being trapped in a cage had my mind spinning the entire night. That, and the man on the lawn and the footsteps outside my room. Paranoia even invaded my sleep.
As I lay flat on my back, an unseen force pushed the key out of the hole, making it fall to the floor with a soft clink. Then the door creaked open, and a large figure stood in the doorway.
In my dream, I was paralyzed, unable to do anything but gasp. He loomed there, backlit by faint moonlight, his broad chest moving up and down like church bellows. Dream man’s hips drove back and forth like he was testing how it would feel to split me open.
I blame not having sex for several days after non-stop action with Gil. Scratch that. I blame Gil. And the crime family I refuse to name because they have the murder weapon with my fingerprints.
I tried to move, but the only thing shifting was the sick pulse between my legs. And his powerful thrusts. He kept rocking, like he already owned the rhythm of my body.Therapists would call it latent sexual aggression. I call it a bad habit of wanting the things that scare me most.
He edged forward, and something loosened in my throat. A scream that had him disappearing into the dark. Before I could even process what happened, the nightmare ended, and I was plunged back into sleep.
A sharp knock has me sitting upright, my head throbbing. Sunlight slices through a gap in the heavy curtains, making me wince. I must have yanked them too hard last night. I clutch my temples and groan. How the hell do I have a hangover when the only thing I swallowed was fear?
Whoever’s outside the door knocks again.
“Who is it?” I yell.
No answer. Just more insistent rapping.
I squint, certain this time I’m awake. My gaze darts to the bedside table where I left my phone. With a yawn, I reach across the bed and pick it up. It’s 6:30 in the morning, and there’s no signal. Maybe service on this part of the island is spotty.
The knocking stops, replaced by the sound of retreating footsteps. I climb out of bed, my bare feet hitting the cold wooden floor. An ache stretches along my back like I’ve been sleeping on concrete. Maybe it’s the stress. Or maybe the mattress is like every rich man I’ve met. Plush up front, knives in the springs.
There’s no time for a shower. Not after oversleeping from such a haunting dream. Not when I imagine eyes at the keyhole, and some man’s breath fogging the brass. I stumble to the wardrobe, pull out the black dress, and hold it up against my body. In daylight, it looks even tighter. The heavy wool fabric is unforgiving.
I pull the dress over my head and catch a whiff ofsomething that isn’t detergent. It’s sharp, almost metallic. I can’t shake off the sense that this once belonged to someone else.
The back of my neck prickles. I glance over my shoulder at the door. The key is still in the lock. It should make me feel better. It doesn’t. And I swear I hear the faintest creak in the floorboards like someone is lingering outside.
Shivering, I turn my attention back to the dress and wrestle it down my body. Its buttons strain across my chest, the sleeves dig into my arms, and the stitches threaten to pop. I catch a thread of dark brown hair caught at the collar. With trembling fingers, I pull it free.
Leaving the top three buttons undone, I tug my hair forward to distract from the gaping neckline. It’s not elegant, but as close to decent as I can manage.
Still, I can’t shake the crawling certainty that someone’s watching me fumble through this outfit. A chill shivers down my spine. I force myself to breathe. I can get over myself. I can do this job. I just need to remember I’m safe.
