Before I could respond, he kissed me.
CHAPTER 18
Luna
When I woke up, Tristan was gone. I found a note on the counter ordering me not to leave the house or unlock the door for anyone but him, and that there was a covered plate in the microwave for me. I smiled. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was trying to fatten me up.
I had some coffee and ate the waffle breakfast he'd left me, then took another shower and brushed my teeth again. When I was done, I eyed my bag of clothes, and then the dresser beside it. Opening one of the drawers, I found boxer briefs and socks, all in black. The next drawer had T-shirts and long-sleeved shirts, like the one he'd had on the other night. The colors of both were all dark and muted. Nothing bright. Nothing colorful.
Beneath his shirts I found a drawer with three pairs of lounge pants. The bottom drawer held a few pairs of black tactical pants and long-sleeved black shirts. A shiver ran down my spine when I remembered these were the clothes he'd had on when he snuck into my room.
All the drawers on the right side were empty.
Chewing my thumbnail, I wandered over to his closet and found a good number of expensive black suit jackets hanging neatly. Beneath them was another rod that held his slacks neatly folded over hangers. On the other side, there was a row of black dress shirts, and two white shirts. On the floor, there was a pair of boots and a pair of white running shoes. I assumed he was wearing his dress shoes. A tie rack hung on the wall at the back with a few black ties. I let one slide between my fingers, feeling the silky texture. Taking a deep breath, I inhaled his scent. The muscles low in my belly clenched with need.
In the end, I left my clothes in the bag, but I did leave my shampoo and conditioner in the shower, along with the body wash I liked. My other bathroom items I arranged on the counter alongside his. Stepping back, I looked at our things sitting there together and wondered when exactly I'd stopped thinking of escaping.
I'll always come for you, Luna.
Trying not to overthink things, I unplugged my cell and put it in the pocket of my jeans so I could text or call Logan when his classes were out, then wandered through the rest of the house. There were only two areas I hadn't seen—a living area off the kitchen and his office.
Like the rest of the house, the living room was neat and clean, the walls unadorned. There was a black leather love seat and a matching chair facing a small fireplace that looked like it had never been used. A simple gray area rug covered the floor. No television. But there were some books on a bookshelf near the windows. Curious, I went over to check them out, running my fingers over the spines as I read the titles. I found a wide array of subjects. Everything from architecture and war to near deathexperiences. I noticed it was all nonfiction. Not a fantasy or mystery in sight.
Moving on, I went across the hall to his office. I hesitated before I went in. But then I figured if he'd wanted me to stay out, he would've at least shut the door and not left it wide open in invitation, so I went in.
His office was small. Everything neat and in its place. Against the wall to my right was a black leather loveseat and a glass coffee table. Directly in front of me was a small black desk faced so his back would be to the wall when he sat at it. On the desk was a computer monitor, mouse, and keyboard. The chair was a luxurious black leather, similar to the couch. The wall behind it was bare except for a small corner window to the right. On my left was a matching bookshelf near the desk, taller than the one in the living room, and on the wall beside it was a generic painting of the Austin skyline. The same painting you could find hanging in at least half of the restaurants in the area.
It was strange to me that he had that painting in particular. From what I knew of Tristan, he wasn't a man who bought a painting just to fill a space on the wall. As a matter of fact, his entire home was very…generic. The outside was stone. The inside had gray walls and laminate ash wood flooring. All the furniture was black, even the ceiling fans. The kitchen and bathrooms had dark gray cabinets and white counters. There was no other decor, unless you counted the drawings of me, which were obviously very personal and still creeped me out just a little.
So, why this particular painting?
Walking over to it, I studied it for a minute, trying to find some reason Tristan would have this hanging in his office. When I saw nothing of interest, I pulled on the bottom right corner a little.
To my surprise, the entire right side of the painting swung out from the wall about an inch.
What the hell?
I tried to see what was behind it, but the window didn't let in much light. I carefully tugged a little harder, half expecting the entire thing to fall to the floor. But it didn't. It swung out more. Enough that I could see the small safe behind it.
My conscience spoke up then, telling me to put the painting back and leave it alone. It was none of my business what was in that safe. Besides, I was absolutely positive it would be locked.
I tried the handle beside the keypad, and, to my surprise, it opened easily.
Too curious to turn back now, I lifted onto my toes and peered inside. A stack of photos rested on top of a pile of papers. Leaving the papers, I pulled out the pictures and looked through a few of them.
At first, I didn't know what I was looking at. They appeared to be random photos of different men. Some wore suits and/or looked to be mafia. Others just looked like random guys of all different ages.
"Weird," I said to the empty room. I was putting the photos back when I saw one that I'd missed. Thinking it came from the bottom of the pile, I pulled it out and glanced at the people in it. My heart stopped in my chest, and for a moment, I couldn't breathe.
I was looking at an image of my mother and me. It had been taken a few weeks before she died.
Why would Tristan have this picture?
I glanced at the other photos, then back at the one of my mom, my mind trying to make the connection. I was missing something obvious.
Wait. This guy. I knew this guy. He used to come to the poker games at the club. He wasn’t much of a player, but he liked to throw his money around. And then one week he just stopped showing up. The funny thing was, no one mentioned it. His name was never tossed around. No one wondered where he was or why he didn’t show up anymore.
I looked at his picture again, then a few others. As I went back to the photo of me and my mom, an idea started to form, but I shook my head before it could even become coherent. No. That couldn't be right.
