Does she hide them even from herself? Is that why she keeps her masterpieces shrouded in shadows?
I remind myself that risked this break-in for a single purpose, so I need to keep my focus on finding her laptop.
I put the paintings back in her closet and find the laptop on the floor beside a stack of books, tucked halfway under the bed. Was she looking at something online late at night? Maybe she has a particular, perverted website she likes to visit.
I’ll make sure to check her browser history as well as any personal documents she’s written.
Any further insight into her sexual preferences will help me seduce her. And if I’m right about her kinky predilections, I’ll feel more secure showing her the darkest aspects of my cruel nature. There will be less risk involved if I know exactly what she wants me to do to her.
I set the laptop on the bed, which is an unmade tangle of sheets.
My lips twist with distaste. Abigail is untidy.
A bad habit I will have to break once she’s mine.
I shake off the possessive thought and ignore the unease that stirs in my gut at how fiercely I want this woman.
The laptop instantly illuminates when I open it. A photo of the beach fills the screen, and a small icon with her face is framed in a circle at the center of the idyllic image. There’s a text box just beneath it, the cursor flickering in a mocking rhythm.
Fuck.
It’s password protected.
Her secrets are in my hands but hopelessly out of reach.
I narrow my eyes at the computer as though it’s a particularly irksome enemy that I’m about to eviscerate. For a few long seconds, my fingers hover over the keyboard. I contemplate guessing her password.
But I have no idea if my attempts will be logged somehow. Even worse, I could end up locked out entirely. Abigail will definitely know someone has tampered with it if that happens.
She’ll know someone was in her home while she was out.
She might call the police. There could be an investigation.
No, I can’t try to guess her password. And I’m no hacker, even if I’m proficient with technology. It’s a skill I’ve learned just like any other to progress my career, but I’ve never needed to learn how to break into a woman’s private laptop.
My hands clench to fists just above the keyboard.
I’m going to have to leave unsatisfied.
The distinctive sound of a key scraping a lock grates down my spine. Her front door creaks open, and my stomach drops.
Abigail is home early.
She was supposed to stay at the bar for at least another two hours. She usually indulges with her friends until nearly midnight when she goes out.
Fuck!
I’ve only been watching her for a few weeks. I was a fool to think I could fully learn her habits in that time. Abigail is quirky, difficult to pin down. I should’ve known that I couldn’t rely on her to stick to any sort of schedule.
I quickly close the laptop, and my eyes can’t quite adjust to the darkness in the absence of artificial light from the screen. Her soft footsteps pad across the living room. In less than three seconds, she’ll enter her bedroom and find me here. She’ll scream for help.
And I’ll end up in a cage.
I grit my teeth and dive under her bed.
I will not go to prison.
Even if the prospect of hiding from her is somewhat preposterous. It feels intrinsically wrong to be cowering in the shadows, as though this delicate woman could pose any threat to me.
