Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87015 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87015 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
“Sure, I can order something for dinner.” I clicked over to one of my many delivery apps.
“No delivery. I’m not trusting our bare-bones setup here. Every delivery is a risk. You really need the works—a full security overhaul with more cameras wired together, better locks and fencing, alarms, extra lights, and more.”
“I thought we did good.” I didn’t like his assessment that we hadn’t done enough. Something small gnawed at my gut.
“It’s a start.” Well, okay then. His voice was clipped, apparently done with being all kind and reassuring.
“And I’ll starve without delivery.” I wasn’t kidding. My few cooking attempts were utter disasters. “Smoothies are my only success story.”
“Well, let’s get you another one.” Earlier he would have coupled that with a smile, but now his body language was stiff and tone resigned. “Do you at least have eggs?”
“Umm. Let’s see.” Hefting myself off the couch, I padded into the kitchen with him close behind.
“My own cooking is pretty limited. I’ve lived on chow hall food for years, and before that, I could do some basics, but there weren’t a lot of ingredients for experimenting. Eggs, though, eggs I can do. Pancakes from a mix. That sort of thing.”
“I don’t think I have eggs.” I looked inside my giant fridge, which had four flavors of coconut milk but little else. “Or mixes.” My voice sounded way too tentative. I hated disappointing him. “I do soup if I can’t figure out what to order.”
“Okay.” He moved to the pantry like he’d already memorized the kitchen layout, which I suppose he had. “We’ll have soup.” He dug around before holding up a can. “Wait. All your soup is like kid stuff. Stars? Rockets?”
“You don’t have to eat it.” I yanked the can from his hand.
“No, it’s fine.” He took it right back. “Sorry. It’s cute. I haven’t had stuff like this in a couple of decades. That’s all.”
“It’s the organic version.” I still sounded way too defensive. “Healthy enough. Our one housekeeper used to stock it for me, and when I tried my first grocery order on my own, it was easier to look for things I knew I liked.”
“Ah. Yeah. Choices can be overwhelming when food shopping.” He nodded like he had me all figured out. “Here. I’ll heat two cans.”
Cash bustled around, finding a pan I hadn’t known I owned. Rather than sound dumb and ask him why no microwave, I settled on a stool at the island with my phone. Bored of the apps, I clicked over to messages. Nothing new from Duncan. Bunch of DM spam. Nothing notable until I clicked one and gasped.
“Oh fuck. Oh, fuck.”
Cash promptly dropped the pot with a loud clatter on the tile floor and raced to my side, grabbing the phone from me. “What?”
“Someone was here. In my house.” My voice rose to shrill levels. “They DM’d me.”
“Maybe it’s pics from the realtor listing?” Cash asked before looking down.
“It’s today.” The message was pic after pic of the various mirrors in my house, all with a person of indeterminate gender holding up a “Miss me” sign in front of their face. The large sign was in the same font as the rat sign. The pics were today, likely while we were out because one of them caught Cash’s abandoned fast-food bag, another had my produce box on the counter. “I’m going to be sick.”
“You can’t.” His hand was firm on my shoulder. “I need you to hold it together for me.”
“I’m trying.”
“I know. I’m calling Harley.” He already had his phone out. “And the cops. Again. Maybe now they’ll take you seriously.”
“We can’t stay here tonight. Where will we go?” I asked miserably, rooted to the spot. I should do something. Gather my stuff. Clean up the pot. Something. But I could barely breathe, let alone move and be useful.
“Harley will help.” Cash rubbed my shoulder, his touch the only thing keeping me from curling into a ball on the floor. “We’ll get a new plan. I promise.”
“Okay.” I already knew I was going to hate it.
Chapter Nine
Cash
Daniel was going to hate any plan we came up with. That much was clear. He hadn’t talked much, but his sad puppy-slumped posture on Duncan’s couch said more than enough. I hated it. I wanted him back to being full of questions and energy, and I hated even more that at least a little of his present mood probably had to do with me turning down his kissing experiment offer.
Most of his funk, though, had to do with having to hand over his phone to the cyber security detective the police sent over. Apparently, we’d scored a law enforcement upgrade, as they’d sent over two cop cars, a detective unit, and an almost guarantee of making the news no matter how much discretion the lead officer promised.