Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 94220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
While Zane didn’t have any social media accounts I could find, Michael does. An Instagram with plenty of pics…
He and Zane have similar eyes, and their hair color’s about the same. I suspect brothers, which is confirmed when I see a pic of them together, the caption reading: “Just chillin’ with my bro.”
Fuck.
Knowing they’re brothers is bad enough, but as I review the photos of them together, it’s clear how close they were—are…we don’t know that he’s dead, I remind myself. Although, given how long it’s been, it’s hard not to be skeptical.
There’s plenty about what Zane shared with me that doesn’t make sense, but this adds a layer of clarity, confirming that, even if he is delusional, he’s got a good reason to be.
But am I really about to trust the guy who broke into my house and pulled a fucking gun on me?
Fuck, I guess I am…
4
ZANE
Sitting at my laptop, I watch the surveillance footage around Leif’s place.
Five cameras, one for each side of the house and an extra one in the back, since as I anticipated, that seems like the most likely point of entry for an abductor if he doesn’t want to be seen by any of Leif’s neighbors.
“See how we can keep an eye on the perimeter?” Dad said, displaying the different viewing screens on his laptop. “That way, we can see anyone coming.”
One of the cameras allows me to see into Leif’s bedroom, but he’s kept his blinds closed since our chat, and I understand why. Despite turning away whenever he’s changed or stripped down, that doesn’t change that what I’m doing is wrong, especially with where my mind goes whenever I see him grab the hem of his shirt and pull it up to his chest, revealing that tight body. Although, I feel less guilty about all this now that I know it’s all been worth it. That I actually intercepted someone’s fucked-up plan to carry him off for whatever sick reason this monster has in mind.
It’s a little after seven. That’s about three hours before Leif usually heads to bed, and he’s in the kitchen. He just finished cooking his dinner. Feel like I can still taste the kick of that stroganoff he gave me earlier.
I didn’t waste time after he gave it to me. I hurried home and warmed it up on the stove before cherishing the kick of paprika and Dijon mustard.
It’s hard to make out what he’s cooking tonight; he’s got it in a clay pot that’s been cooling on top of the stove. He glances around uneasily. He’s done that a few times since our talk. Figure it freaks him out knowing I’m watching, which I feel like shit about. He’s packing some of it up in Tupperware, even before eating, which isn’t the norm. And he’s made more food than usual, maybe to have some throughout the week.
He packs the Tupperware into a backpack on the counter. He slings the backpack over his shoulder, then grabs the clay pot with two pot holders before heading for the door.
What is he doing?
Soon, he’s out the front door, on the move.
I can tell from Camera 1 that he’s making his way through the yard toward my place.
“Fuck,” I mutter. I hurry to the bathroom and check myself in the mirror. Glad I fucking took a shower earlier. I throw on some extra deodorant, and the doorbell rings.
What is wrong with this guy?
I hurry downstairs and open the door, and I’m sure my confusion is written all over my expression.
“Care for some spaghetti squash chili?”
“Uh…sure,” I say with a shrug.
I step aside and let him into my place. For the guy who kept pepper spray on me throughout the morning, he sure as hell doesn’t seem afraid of me now.
That’s a mistake.
He leads me into my own kitchen.
“What are you doing here?” I ask as he sets the pot on the stove.
“Figured I’d give you an update after my visit with the cops.”
“Yeah, I sort of…”
“Followed me to the station? Yeah. I’m more aware since our chat.”
After our visit earlier, I’d tailed him to the station, parking nearby while he met with them. But I thought I was doing a good job keeping my distance.
“I was half expecting them to raid this place,” I say, “but all I got was a voice mail from Detective Roth, asking me to call her back.”
“Funny ’cause no one’s contacted me.” He doesn’t sound happy about that. Like he’s having to come to terms with the fact that the cops aren’t going to take this as seriously as they should.
“What happened?”
He smiles, and I can’t imagine what he has to smile about with everything he has going on. “I hope you like corn bread. I also brought over some coleslaw I made the other day.”