And I don't have a plan.
Nothing solid.
Nothing written in stone.
"But as trust goes both ways, you need to let me out and trust I won't run. All I need and want is some chicken noodle soup. Letting me roam the house is the least you can do."
My heart thunders in my ears, and my chest aches as I wait for his verdict.
But finally, he breathes out and says, "Okay."
Just like that, tension seeps away. Some of it, anyway.
"Thank y?—"
"But..." Enzo says. "If this is a ploy or if you run, I'll hunt you down and make your life hell."
Like he's already doing. But I keep those words to myself. Just like I don't say his threat plays into why I'm angry in the first place.
I don't say any of that.
Instead, I just say, "Thanks, Enzo. Thank you for trusting me."
By the time Enzo leaves, I'm ready to scream.
He's a hoverer. A control freak.
I know his idea of freedom is his eyes on me.
Who cares if there are people in the house, in the downstairs living room where they wait and watch small screens of the outside and are ready to pounce if someone even dares to attempt to come near this place without an invitation written in triplicate? And who cares if there are people in his employ outside, too?
It doesn't matter to him that they'll nab me if I even think of stepping toward the door.
He just wants to be here and control everything.
But after setting up the pressure cooker on the bench and filling it to my specifications with water to cover the bones and the chicken pieces, I finally get him to go.
He and his hacker friends—Or are they mafia or maybe hacker-mafia friends?—are still trying to find the man named Dom who took Lyndall.
I'm actually all for him doing that.
The man took a child, threw her in the trunk of his car, he deserves whatever takedown is planned.
I relax as I prep for when the stock is done. I have a pot on the stove so I can cook the noodles. This way, I can make thick or thin soup to match my mood in the coming days. I'm sure Enzo won't eat it.
And if it's not burgers or pizza, then it's not food as far as Lyndall is concerned.
That makes me giggle. It's not true, but it's pretty close.
"That smells good," Lyndall says, as if I summoned her, stomping down the stairs to the kitchen. "I didn't think it was my brother. And he let you out! Where is he?"
"I convinced him to give me a chance with this thing called trust."
"Goes both ways."
"I know that." I wipe the tears as I finish dicing the onion.
Lyndall comes up to me and hugs me tight. "Don't cry."
