But it’s clear for the first time exactly how much money Matt must make, how all of his architectural projects, all those sculptural buildings lighting up his grid on Instagram, must have paid for all this.
I can’t help but realize that if our relationship goes anywhere, I might end up living in this house with him. The thought is terrifying in its unbridled optimism.
I swing my torch toward another doorway I notice on the left-hand wall. I pad over to it. My bare feet squeak on the taut, plastic floor covering.
I reach out a hand to the door handle and turn. It creaks open. I snatch a breath and pull it wide, shining my torch light directly into it.
It is a narrow restroom.
I stare at it for a second, pulse lowering, breath normalizing. But at least I’ve found a toilet.
When I exit the toilet, I make it as far as the first row of cinema seats before all the lights in the room burst on.
I squint through the bright glare, and make out Matt’s form filling the doorway. He’s just in his boxers, his muscular frame blocking the door. He holds my gaze, the smallest of frowns pinching his brows.
“What are you doing down here?” he asks.
“Bathroom,” I admit sheepishly, and it’s not a lie, exactly.
He studies me a moment, then nods, the sound of the toilet cistern filling behind me evidence enough.
“Oh. You know, there’s a toilet upstairs, too,” he says, turning back to the stairs and ascending, leaving me behind. “Come back to bed when you’re done—I’ll warm you up,” he yawns, the easy familiarity between us deeply reassuring.
He doesn’t seem concerned I’m snooping around. And why should he; there’s nothing concerning down here at all.
I follow Matt out, flicking off the lights as I pass, leaving the deep darkness behind me.
I wake a few hours later to find him looking at me drowsily, his face across from mine, his arm draped heavily over me, and I feel more warm and secure than I have felt in years.
He gives me a sleepy smile and pulls me close, kissing my forehead with gentle intimacy.
“Thank you for last night,” he whispers, his voice so close and soft that it makes me shiver.
—
My house feels cold and empty when I return, in spite of the warm morning sun outside. A mournful meow echoes from the kitchen. I straighten. It’s Blue, waiting to be fed and let out, and the sooner I do that, the sooner we can find Anna. I fasten on his collar, check that the note is still there, and open the door.
He didn’t even wait for breakfast. Which means he’ll be heading somewhere he knows has good food.
Chapter 39
Anna
Anna watches the window, thegarden beyond the bushes that partially shield her view unmoving but for the stirring of the wind.
Her stomach groans, but the emptiness is good; it is a reminder that all of this is coming to a head. She is hungry because she has fed the fluffy gray cat several tins of her canned supplies, and now she’s had to cut back herself to avoid being fully out when she is next resupplied.
When she is free, she will cook a whole roast chicken, she promises herself, and eat the whole thing in one sitting with her bare hands.
If she gets free.
She hasn’t known the day of the week for certain since she arrived, but she knows roughly how long she’s been down here; she started counting the days when she woke up in the room, marking them off on the bare floor beneath the loose carpet tile at the foot of the bed.
She doesn’t know how long she was unconscious after falling down at Simon’s house; she only knows that when she woke up, she was here, wherever here is.
Simon visits every third day. He used to come every day but that has petered out.
Some days their time together can look, sound, and almost feel like it did when their relationship was real. As if, Anna thinks, this were just their home and she were a trad wife but without a kitchen or floral dresses.
