After a few seconds more, I turn the lights off in slow order, making it seem like I’m in the house and might be going to bed. I’m almost eager to see if she’ll try to get inside. It would trip the silent alarm and probably have Rex blowing up my phone. I think about texting him to let him know I have it under control, but I don’t want to alert him needlessly if I don’t need to.
I watch her climb over the fence with practiced ease and land on my property. When she rises from her crouch, she slinks closer to my door and peers inside the glass. Her hands are down at her sides, never once reaching for the handle to test if it’s locked. She moves like a cat, smooth and light on her feet, going from window to window as she peers inside my house. Most of the curtains are drawn, so there’s not much info for her to gather, but it makes me wonder if this is the first time she’s been here. Would I have even noticed if it wasn’t? How long has she been watching me, and who sent her?
MAXINE
I’m taking too many chances, but I can’t help myself. There’s this need to know anything about him I can. I don’t know where I expected him to live, but this subdivision is not it. It’s so middle-class American and a place I would choose to stay, where people are too busy with their own shit to look too closely at mine, similar to my condo, but his neighborhood is much nicer.
Peering into his kitchen window doesn’t give me any insight, other than his house is cleaner than mine. There aren’t any plants, dog dishes, or drawings pinned to the fridge, which makes me feel more comfortable to continue peeking into his life.
When I round the side of his house, all the curtains are drawn, cutting off my view, so I focus on more important things, like window contacts for an alarm system, which I don’t see, but that doesn’t mean I’m in the clear. I’m used to hunting men who don’t like to leave a video trail or have an alarm that will notify a call center of their comings and goings.
Craning my neck back, I glance up at the second-floor windows. I still have so many questions, but it would be dumb to push my luck tonight and try to get inside, especially with him there. The jammer in my pocket is the only thing protecting me from any alarms or video equipment he and his neighbors might have.
The sun will be up soon, so I can’t go around front and risk getting caught just to appease my curiosity. For all I know, he has a woman who will be getting up for work soon. Hell, this might be his girlfriend’s house. That would explain why a guy like him is living in suburbia in a cookie-cutter house that young families seem to prefer, but the real question he could help me understand is why the hell I even care.
Because I can’t walk away without leaving something behind or making sure something is out of place, proving I was here, I pick up a small pebble from the ground and place it on the window ledge after rolling it around in my hand for a moment. I doubt anyone else will even notice it, but I will every time I come back.
It’s hard to walk away from the house, but I do it anyway, comforting myself with the knowledge that I can return again. The thrill of the hunt hasn’t yet abated. There’s still too much to learn about my mark. I decide right then and there that Edward can wait a few more days to die, because I’m enjoying this a little too much.
I spare the front of the house a glance when I drive past, noting how all the curtains and shades are drawn there too. It makes me think he has something to hide.Don’t we all?
I’m used to dealing with secrets. I just usually know what I’m getting into beforehand, but that’s not the case now. I need to be careful turning over rocks, I might just find a snake.
CHAPTER7
WINGER
Iwatch her place something on the outside windowsill, then admire it for a long second before she turns around and walks away. When she’s near the sidewalk, I inch nearer to watch her climb into her car and drive off. Her head is turned as she watches the house, so I’m glad I stayed in the shadows.
Thoughts of who sent her and why fill my head. With her gone, I check the window to see what she placed, only to find a small, innocuous rock. I pick it up and examine it in the dim morning light, but there’s no mistaking it’s just a fucking stone. Why did she put it on the window? Is it a sign to someone else? I think about chucking the thing into the yard but decide to put it back in its place. I don’t want her or anyone else knowing I found it.
After checking the other windows on the ground floor and finding them free of rocks or any other debris, I finally head into the house, making sure to lock the door and set the alarm. I don’t plan on sleeping for a while. I need to make sure no one else is going to come back and try to slit my throat while I sleep.
My feet carry me right over to the cabinet near the fridge, where I open the cupboard, finding bottles of amber liquid. My hand fists at my side, making pain radiate up my arm from the cut that could have used some stitches.
A drink is the last thing I need, but this has become my nightly routine—come home half shit-faced and drink myself to sleep.
The sight of the bottles and my weakness threatens to send me into a rage again. I want to shatter the glass, because the desire to drink what’s inside and numb myself is strong. How the fuck did I let this happen?
I slam the door and open the fridge. The shit inside, or lack thereof, is another punch to the gut. When was the last time I went grocery shopping? There’s a pizza box from I don’t know when and some condiments. It reminds me of my empty fridge when I was a kid—besides the pizza box—which I’ve always tried to avoid.
Not bothering to slam the door after yet another ugly realization about my life, I head over to my coffee maker and empty out the slightly damp grounds. I’m on autopilot as I make a pot of coffee. The shit doesn’t even taste good, but it’s easy to swallow the burning liquid.
I place myself in front of the window with the stone. I can see the smooth surface clearly now that the sun is up. When I think about everything that happened tonight, the rock seems insignificant, yet somehow, it seems more important than anything else.
* * *
I skip workthe next night, certain I need to stay home in case someone comes back, but my thoughts are dominated by wanting a drink. At some point, I fall asleep and wake up on the couch at six in the evening, drenched in sweat. As soon as I sit up, a wave of nausea rolls through my stomach, and the only thing keeping me from hurling all over my carpet is sheer fucking will.
I crash into a few corners before making it to the bathroom, where I dry heave a few times. My gut doesn’t really settle, but the urge to toss my spleen into the toilet lets up a little as a monster headache throbs against my skull. What I thought was a hangover is quickly careening into something else.
If I didn’t need to go down and clean up my mess in the office of the club, the only place I would be going is to the bed, but my pride won’t let me leave my office in the state I left it in two nights ago. With my luck, Rex or Iron would show up and ask all kinds of questions I have no intention of answering.
I make it to the club without putting my head out the window to puke, but it’s tough.
“You’re here early. Man, you look like shit,” Masher says.
“I won’t be here long,” I mumble, stalking past him. The club music is low and softer than the shit we play at night. I don’t know the day crew as well as I do the night, but my gaze is watery anyway, so I just head straight to my locked office without speaking to anyone. The sooner I get it cleaned up, the sooner I can get the fuck out of here and go home.
