And I find that oddly disappointing.
I wasn’t going to answer if she did ask a question, and I certainly wasn’t going to let her in. But if she’d said something, then I could have been irritated by her invasiveness. Maybe it would’ve made it easier not to switch on the security monitor.
Which is exactly what I do next.
The view outside my rooms flashes onto the screen. I’m surprised to find the hall empty. It makes me wonder if I actually heard a knock or if it was just my tired brain playing tricks on me.
But then I notice something on the floor.
It takes me a second to figure out what it is, but once I do, my head falls back on a groan. “Are you fucking kidding me?” I scrub one hand over my face, the tips of my fingers lingering over the raised flesh covering my right cheek as I consider how much work it would take to find Walker and kick his ass.
I thought it was bad being able to see every freckle on Mariah’s face through the cameras, but now I’m faced with a completely different sort of intrigue.
Dinner.
My house is well insulated. The office where I work is technically a safe room. Considering what I do, I need to be sure no one can access my computers. With the press of a button, I can lock everything down in a matter of seconds. It’s a necessary precaution, but it makes the room virtually soundproof.
And apparently also smell proof.
Because I sure as hell should have smelled whatever it is piled on the tray sitting right outside my door.
I shouldn’t investigate. Sure as shit shouldn’t even consider eating whatever’s out there.
But I don’t remember the last time I had a hot meal. Something I didn’t eat in whatever form it came out of its packaging. One leg starts to bounce as I stare at the door, fighting with myself.
Yet again.
It’s just food, right? And that’s what she’s here for. Is it wrongfor me to partake in what she’s being paid to do while I figure out how to get her—and my mother—to move along?
It would be a waste to just leave it out there.
When I stand up, it’s only to burn off the jittery sensation crawling over my skin—probably from having someone in my house. When I pace across the room, it’s only to work out the stress making my limbs tingle.
When I open the door, it’s only to get a better look at the situation. That’s what I get paid to do. Evaluate. Assess. Analyze.
The scent of something warm, melty, and savory tickles my nose and makes my mouth water. My kitchen isn’t even close to being stocked, so I don’t know where Mariah found the ingredients to make the pressed sandwich staring back at me.
“Goddammit.” I snatch the tray up, quickly closing the door in case she decides to come try to catch me in the act.
Once I’m locked safely inside, the sandwich doesn’t stay intact for more than five seconds. I shove in half of one side and groan around the collection of flavors mingling on my tongue. It would figure my mother managed to hire a beautifulandskilled chef to torment me.
I carry the tray back to my desk, flopping down in the chair as I take in the rest of what Mariah prepared for me. Besides the sandwich, there’s a collection of raw vegetables alongside a cup of creamy looking dip. A variety of fruit is sliced and situated with some sort of crumbly looking cheese.
I dunk a carrot stick into the dip. It’s familiar. One I’ve had plenty of times. Seems like my mother made sure Mariah had at least a little to work with her first evening here.
I’m not sure what she’s going to do tomorrow though, because I know for a fact all that’s in my fridge is a partial gallon of milk and a bottle of ketchup.
I might as well place a grocery order. Can’t have her starving in the time it takes her to decide to move out.
As I open the website for the closest store, I accidentally look at the camera feed.
And see Mariah cleaning my fucking kitchen.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I switch to a different tab—one that’s secure—and hack into my mother’s email.
I don’t make a habit of invading my family’s privacy, but I think she’s earned it today.
After locating Mariah’s information, I use it to add a deposit to her bank account. For pain and suffering.
