Beingsmall has its advantages in certain situations. I’m often overlooked, but even more beneficial is the fact that I can slip in and out of places most people wouldn’t think to protect, say the third-floor bathroom window.
My soft soled sneakers land soundlessly on the tile floor, then I stay still for several seconds and listen. I’ve been surprised in a home I thought was empty before. In my defense, there’s no way I could have known my target had the girl he brought home the night before tied up in his hidey-hole.
I hated leaving her there while I waited for him to get home, but I couldn’t chance removing her from the house before the deed was done. I still dream about the helpless sounds she made while blindfolded and tied to the bed, but I can never tell if they were really from her or memories from my own past.
I push thoughts of her away, knowing she’s safe now, and focus on the present. The house smells clean, too clean, like someone went crazy with Pine-Sol and Pledge. I wait for the acidic stench of bleach to burn my nose, but it’s absent, which could mean Edward just had his house cleaned as opposed to getting rid of evidence.
I’m leaning toward the former. Contrary to my wayward thoughts of the young woman only moments ago, most of my targets don’t often shit where they eat, meaning it’s rare that they would bring a victim home. Now the mementoes are another story. Those you can find in spades if you know where to look.
Even though I haven’t found any surveillance equipment, I still set up my jammer to interrupt Wi-Fi cameras Edward might have. Once I’m in the hallway, I creep close to the wall and head downstairs to the master bedroom. I found some inconsistencies with the original blueprint of the house and measurements, making me almost certain there’s a hidden room, or at the very least, a false wall.
Since I know he’s not on his regular schedule today, I need to be quick. I don’t want to get caught and have to rush my plan. It only takes a few minutes to find his lair. The man either has no imagination or he’s overconfident, probably both. I take a few photos of everything inside the small room, including the computers and boxes. Thankfully, the room is small enough that I know he hasn’t brought anyone in here. It’s just used for storage, but I would bet there’s proof of his misdeeds littered everywhere.
I close up the room after I’m confident I can erase some of the details to protect his real victims while still exposing him. Everyone will know he was a horrible person with secrets that he kept from his closest friends, and I’ll do my best to protect all the girls from ever being outed by this monster in the event that they went on to have some semblance of a normal life.
I’ll leave clues to his drug use as well. It’s a total lie, but when he dies of an overdose and they find all the evidence I planted, they won’t question his death. Besides, no one will care how he died once I show them who he really was.
I pull out the small Ziplock bag of goodies I’ve been picking up and add a few pieces of paraphernalia to the back of the drawer in the bathroom I snuck into. It’s mostly for me to prove I can fuck with his life without him knowing, but it also creates my narrative.
I slip back out of the house just as easily as I went in, making sure no nosy neighbors are watching me, but Edward’s wealth affords him some privacy that I take full advantage of.
Once I’m back on the sidewalk, I stroll slowly while pretending to look at my phone like I don’t have a care in the world. After a nice walk around the block, I climb back into my car and find another place to park for a little while so I can see when my target returns home. I use the time to do a little searching on the parking garage to discover what founts of information I can find readily available on the internet.
CHAPTER5
WINGER
Aheavy knock on my office door makes me grind my molars. “What?” I bark, not bothering to hide the fact that I want to be left the fuck alone, but I’m wasting my breath. The room is soundproof.
With sloppy movements, I shove away from the desk and stomp over to the door. It’s late as hell, so I thought I could escape into my bottle for the rest of the night, but apparently not. “What?”
“Boss.” Masher’s heavy brows furrow as his features pinch. “I was going to lock up, but I noticed your car,” he tells me.
I blink a few times. Hell, what time is it? It dawns on me how quiet the hall is. I can’t feel the heavy bass from the music or hear the girls talking over one another. Did I pass out? Jesus, I need to cut it the fuck out. I’m going to get myself killed or worse.
“Been busy. Lost track of time,” I tell him, but I’m sure he can see that’s not the case.
“Okay, boss,” he agrees easily, ignoring the fact that I’m drunk off my ass.
“I have a few more things to do. Lock up on your way out,” I tell him with the intention of sobering up a little before I head home. I don’t think I would even care if I drove headfirst into a wall, but I’m not going to take out some poor sucker on his way home from the nightshift because I can’t see straight.
I close the door and start toward the sofa in my office, but without thought, I veer to my desk and wrap my hands around the neck of the half empty bottle. As I bring it to my lips, I get a whiff of the alcohol, and my throat tightens on a retch. That one moment of clarity is all it takes to let the bottle slip from my fingers.
The glass is too heavy to break, but most of the remaining liquid slips soundlessly onto the carpet. I shuffle to the sofa before collapsing on the cushions. My head is spinning, and not in a good way. When was the last time I actually felt better when I was drunk and it did anything but dull everything around me?
I remember feeling…something when Lucy and Rex got married, but hell, that was over two years ago, and the only thing I was drinking was cham-fucking-pagne. I’ve known for a while that shit was getting out of hand, but I always waited until I was home to get shit-faced, or I thought I was, but this proves I’m even more out of control than I let myself believe.
Emptiness claws at my stomach. I can’t remember the last time I ate today. Did I eat today? I jolt to my feet as thoughts of my childhood try to surface, even through the fog of alcohol. I was always fucking hungry, and it makes me sick to think that I feel that way now.
Before Rex and I became…friends, or whatever the hell we are, I was too afraid to do anything about my situation, too nervous to take food or anything else that didn’t belong to me, because I was worried about the consequences, but he taught me how to live off what was available and to take it if it wasn’t. I’d probably be dead without him.
As my thoughts spiral, so do my emotions, and before I know it, I pick the bottle up off the floor and launch it at the wall. It leaves a small, wet splotch that drips slowly down the worn paint, but it’s not enough, so I shove the shit on my desk to the ground and heave the heavy wood until it’s flipped on its side.
An image of my mom walking out the door and leaving me alone flashes in my mind. It could play over on repeat for an hour and still wouldn’t represent how many times she left me without food, heat, or even a fucking blanket. Anger builds, and I scream at the ceiling until my throat feels raw.
I explode toward the door, ready to tear this place to the ground, but something stops me just as I grab the handle. I know if I enter the club, I’m going to trash the entire place, but the thought of explaining what happened sours the desire to do damage. I’m sure as shit not going to tell them I threw a fit because I thought about my childhood, or lack thereof, nor will I lie and say someone else came in and did it. That would probably be worse.
I slam my forehead against the heavy door, and my vision darkens, which feels damn near euphoric. For a blissful moment, the only thing I can focus on is the pain in my head and keeping myself standing.
