I flip through each book, shaking them to dislodge anything hidden between pages. Nothing falls out but a pressed flower and a movie ticket stub.
Worthless sentiments.
As I lift the couch cushions around her unconscious form, my hand brushes against her thigh.
She doesn’t stir. I check her breathing and pulse to ensure I didn’t give her too much GHB. Both are good. She’s in a deep sleep that’ll leave her groggy when she wakes, as if recovering from a night of too much drinking. Nothing more than a nasty hangover.
I probe beneath the cushions, finding only crumbs, a pen, and loose change. I roll back the rug to scan the floorboards for signs of tampering. The wood is old but intact. No hiding place there.
The bathroom is a quick search. Medicine cabinet reveals prescription anxiety meds, over-the-counter sleep aids, and various creams and lotions in half-used tubes. The cabinet under the sink holds cleaning supplies, extra toilet paper, and tampons. I check the toilet tank. Empty except for the mechanism.
Behind the shower curtain, I discover shampoo bottles, conditioner, and body wash. All smelling of her. Vanilla, spice, and sunlight. I unscrew caps, squeeze tubes, flatten everything between my palms.
Nothing.
I move to her bedroom, flicking on the light. The bed is unmade, sheets tangled as if she’d tossed and turned the night before. Weird. I would’ve pegged her for a daily bedmaker. When I spy the large stack of romance novels on the nightstandwith titles that include words likeAlpha,Captive,Bound,andClaimed, I snort.
Innocent little Chloe has a kinky dark side. Reducing her to putty in my hands would be so easy.
Wet, slippery, gasping putty. Again.
Focus.
I pick up the framed photo of Chloe with an older couple that’s perched on top of her dresser. Parents, probably. A wooden box sits next to it, ornately carved with flowers and birds.
I lift the box, judging the weight of its contents before prying open the lid. A tiny bracelet, a smooth stone, a folded piece of paper that turns out to be a class certificate from elementary school. Small treasures with no apparent value.
Trinkets that only matter to her.
The dresser drawers slide open with a soft whisper. I rifle through them efficiently, starting with the top. Socks. Plain cotton underwear. I freeze when I open the next drawer.
Lace. Silk. Black, red, deep purple. The drawer is full of lingerie that would make a stripper blush. Thongs, push-up bras, garters, things with straps and hooks and purposes I can guess at but don’t want to think about. Not on her.
Not worn for someone else.
Did she wear one of these tonight? For that pathetic man who couldn’t even handle his bill?
A flash of hot anger arcs through me, mixing with dark, possessive jealousy. I slam the drawer shut with more force than intended.
Focus on the mission.
I inspect the closet, dipping my hands into coat pockets, scanning shelves, and moving piles of sweaters and quilts.
Nothing.
Under the bed yields dust bunnies and a shoebox full of birthday cards. I flip through them, scanning for any that seem out of place. Nothing but saccharine-sweet messages from colleagues, parents of students, and her mother. No secret codes. No hidden meanings.
My gaze lands on the globe bar tucked into a corner of the living room. I walk over to the beautiful piece and run my fingers over the dark wood and brass fixtures. I find and press on the latch at the Equator where the two hemispheres should separate. Nothing happens, so I press harder.
Still nothing. Chloe was right. The latch is broken.
I give the globe a careful spin, monitoring for any wobble or noise that would suggest an object was hidden inside. The sphere rotates smoothly on its axis, silent except for the whisper of movement.
As I return to the kitchen, frustration builds beneath my skin. I open every cabinet, inspect every container. I dump flour onto the counter and rake my fingers through the powder. I check the freezer, the vegetable crisper, behind the refrigerator.
Nothing.
I rescan the room. I’ve searched every inch, every drawer, every container to no avail.
