Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 81317 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81317 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
At least this time, he was dressed. His hair was damp as well, like he had somehow found another shower in the building, and he was redressed in perfectly pressed gray slacks, a black belt, and a matte black dress shirt. No tie this time.
His office was much the same as the rest of the building, heavy on the navy, dark wood, and silver.
"Aven, have a seat," he offered, waving to the two across from his massive executive desk. I moved across the room, all a sudden very, very aware of my bralessness when his eyes moved over me again. I swear my traitorous nipples seemed to harden slightly under the inspection, making me raise my arms like I was bringing my cup up higher as I sat down. "Feel a little more human?" he asked.
I nodded at that. Taking a small sip of the still too-hot coffee.
"I brought your purse in here," he said, nodding to where it was sitting on a desk behind him next to a printer and a file stacker. "Now, we need to talk."
"Okay," I agreed.
"We are going to start at day one, then work our way all the way to last night. I want every detail you remember about every incident, even if you can't keep the timeline straight in your head. What he was wearing, what he was doing, what time of day or night it was. The more I know, the better I can shut all this down. The pictures on his camera suggest he has gotten really close to you, likely before any of the actual peeping behavior at your house started. There are pictures of you sitting outside She's Bean Around, standing beside your car that appears to be smoking, walking into Kennedy's where, I take it, you work."
"The car smoking incident was over a year ago," I said on a hushed whisper. That long? He had been obsessed with me for a year? How the hell had it slipped by me for all that time?
"Don't start over-thinking this," Quinton demanded, shaking his head a little. "Creeps find ways to creep. That's what they do. It's not your fault that you didn't notice it. Now, when did you first remember seeing him?"
"Valentine's Day of this year."
I remembered it perfectly. Work had been busy all week in anticipation of all the V-day hanky-panky that was sure to go on. And all the people in the salon got obnoxious, cheesy, but envy-worthy bouquets of flowers, and boxes of chocolate, and teddy bears, and jewelry delivered all day long. I was, apparently, the only single person in the building. Usually, I was completely fine with being single. I always got to pick what was on the TV, and what take-out to order. Nothing ever had to be compromised on. It was freeing. But on days that celebrated togetherness in all its many forms from Christmas and New Years to the very obvious day of love itself, yeah, there was always a pang. Small, but there.
So I had left work, picked up an enormous order of takeaway Chinese, some hard cider, and a six-pack of cheese danishes, intending to eat - and drink - every last bit of all of it while I snuggled on my couch in sweats watching Unsolved Mysteries reruns on TV.
I had done all that too.
Blissfully unaware of my open windows, and the darkness outside. The doors were locked because, well, I was single, not stupid. But that was the extent of my home protection plan.
Until I got up to bring my plate to the sink.
And saw a face in the window.
I was not a screamer. I could watch jump-scare after jump-scare in any movie without letting a single sound escape my lips. But right then, alone in my home, without even a bat to defend myself with, the fear was something the likes of which I had never known before.
So I had screamed.
And, luckily, that time, that was enough to send him running.
I launched into all the other incidents, each one getting a little more fuzzy as they all started rolling together with how frequent it all was. I remembered things, like what was said, what he had done, but I couldn't recall what he wore, what days of the week it took place, if there was any truly discernible pattern to any of it.
Quinton took it all in stride, likely used to not having every last detail. But he scribbled away on a sheet of paper as I spoke.
"Why is all of this necessary?" I found myself asking when I was tapped out of new information, my coffee was empty, and there was a throbbing headache starting in my temples.
"Normally, it wouldn't be. But while you were showering, Finn called. The fuck didn't have an ID on him. We need to know who he is, so we can figure out if his house is plastered with pictures of you."