Total pages in book: 164
Estimated words: 152853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 764(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 510(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 152853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 764(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 510(@300wpm)
I’m like a wannabe spy in a cheesy sitcom, opening the door a crack and peering into the dark hallway. The office door is open, except the room is empty. I crane my neck to find the same true of the bathroom. I dash on tiptoe down the hall and let out a sigh of relief on closing the door. Congratulations. You made it to the bathroom, you dork.
After washing my hands, I splash my face like that’s going to wash away the weirdness of getting off on fantasizing about the man I’m hiding from. Like it’s not enough I have to hide from Jeff.
My jaw juts out when I meet my gaze in the mirror. No more hiding. If he tries to broach last night, I’ll shut him down. I don’t need to talk about it. I know exactly what happened and why. Performing a post-mortem isn’t going to change anything.
The first thing I hear when I venture into the hall is a noise behind the house. Probably Romero, but it sparks my curiosity. I'm not going to take the office as a sign that he trusts me—he probably doesn't leave anything he feels is vital in that room. Either way, my conscience doesn’t bother me as I cross the room and go to the back window to scan the yard.
And the sight of a trio of kids in bulky hoodies clustered around the door to the garage makes my blood boil. They can’t be older than twelve, maybe thirteen, and two keep a lookout while the third messes with the padlock on the door.
These little bastards! I raised my hand to bang on the window, but that's not enough. It would scare them away, but it wouldn't send the right message. Instead, I run full out down the stairs and to the kitchen, flinging the door open and relishing their open-mouthed surprise.
“Stay the fuck out of here!” I scream while they scramble away, two of them hopping the fence easily but the third getting his jeans caught on the twisted metal prongs running along the top of the chain link. I laugh at how he tumbles to the ground before scrambling to his feet. “We're installing a fucking camera! Think about that the next time you shitheads have nothing better to do!”
Okay, so I've become an old woman, screaming at neighborhood kids to stay off her lawn. But this is serious. They were trying to break into the garage. Granted, I have no idea what the hell is in there, but there has to be a reason there's a lock on the door.
The moment my heartbeat starts to slow, it occurs to me that Romero didn't come running when I screamed. There goes my Spidey Sense, tingling like crazy. It's when I hear his fists making contact with the heavy bag downstairs that I realize he probably works out with earbuds in. I wonder how loud he keeps the music if he can't hear what just happened.
I also see an opportunity.
Call it boredom. Call it curiosity—years of it, stretching all the way back to the morning after my middle school graduation, when I woke up to find him in the house. Whatever the reason, it makes me head for the key ring on the table near the front door. I'm probably not doing myself any favors by taking them, and he'll probably hide them from me from now on, though I will happily point out that would be a mistake. What if he was injured and couldn't tell me where to find the car keys? What if something happens and I need to get away fast while he stays behind?
I could ask myself what if until the cows come home. Instead, I go through the keys on my way out the back door and through the yard. The garage sits at the end of the driveway, beyond the fenced-in section, and I would guess it's big enough to drive a car into but as far as I know, Romero has never so much as opened the doors. At least, not since I've been here.
There’s a small, silver key on the ring that fits the padlock—and when it turns easily and the lock pops open, I can't keep my hands from trembling. I’m an explorer who finally found what they were looking for, or at least came one step closer. With a quick look over my shoulder to make sure he's not watching, I open the door and step inside. The air is dry, stale, and there’s a faint scent of old books and gasoline.
There’s a switch to the left of the door and I flip it, lighting a bare bulb in the center of the ceiling and illuminating a surprisingly clean space. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had it emptied out like he clearly did to the house before bringing in new furniture. Whatever used to be in here, he kept only what mattered most.