There was no landline, no phones, no technology to connect me to the outside world. The penthouse was too high to get someone on the street’s attention. The doors too solid for a scream to be heard. I had free access to the half-stocked fridge and full freezer. I floated between the kitchen with open space living area and the bedroom…and waited. For three days, I had watched Netflix and eaten his food. The first day, I had been nervous the whole day, waiting for the front door to open. The second day, I was more relaxed. I had tried to get into every room that was closed to me. I had success on one door, and my elation at my breaking and entering skills was short-lived when I realised that I had breached the door of the utility room. Seems it was only locked and not secret service entry like everywhere else in the penthouse was.
By day three, I was bored. I had eaten an entire carton of ice cream, I had gorged on chips, I had eaten all the junk food in the freezer. It had been a long time since I felt sick from overeating. But overeating just because I could and also my own company were driving me insane.
Even full from eating too much food, I had still made popcorn, and the empty bowl was now on the floor. I had dragged my blanket and pillows down from the bedroom and made myself comfortable. The thought that he wasn’t coming back had fluttered in my brain too many times today, which would mean I should probably ration the food, if his plan was to leave me here to die. But then if I was going to die, I may as well enjoy the food first, right? It had been a long time since I had pigged out on junk food.
Yet, a part of me still didn’t think he would leave me here. He scared the shit out of me, and as I lay watching the documentary, it disturbed me that I thought he would be looking at this thinking they were amateurs. It left me questioning my own sanity, but I was also in a sugar coma, so I wasn’t sure which thing was making me sick, the thought of him as a serial killer or the overdose of sugar.
Tomorrow, I would find a way out. I was sure of it. I closed my eyes as I thought about him and his actions. I was tired, and I promised myself that I would go up to bed in a minute.
Opening my eyes, I realised the TV was muted, the light flickering over him as he sat and watched it in the dark room. I felt myself freeze and then wonder if I could feign sleep.
“Have fun?” He didn’t turn my way, continuing to watch the TV and read the subtitles. I hadn’t put subtitles on, I hadn’t been able to figure out the hi-tech remote, apart from on, volume control and change channels. There were far too many buttons other than the simple basics.
How long had he been here? Had he silenced the TV so as not to disturb my sleep?
“You’ve been gone for three days.”
“I have.” I noticed he was eating an orange, a glass of water beside it.
“Where were you?” I sat up and rubbed my eyes. He was wearing dark slacks and a dark shirt. Did he own any other colour of clothing?
“It doesn’t matter.” His head turned to look at me. “You eat everything you wanted?”
I was glad the room was dull so he couldn’t see my blush. “I ate things I hadn’t had in a while.” The whole exchange was strangely surreal. I wasn’t sure if it was the late hour, my half sleep ridden brain, or the weird atmosphere with the black and white lighting from the TV illuminating him in the shadows.
“You’ve been sleeping on the couch? There’s a room upstairs for you to sleep.”
He was reprimanding me? To hell with that. “I shouldn’t be here at all. When are you going to let me go?”
“Not yet.”
“You can’t keep me!” My legs swung over the side of the couch as I pushed myself up in indignation.
“Why?” His attention was back to the TV.
I was momentarily speechless. Was he seriously asking me why he couldn’t hold me against my will? “I didn’t see anything.”
“I’ll be the judge.”
“And my executioner?”
He turned fully in his seat and looked at me. “If I need to be.”
“You don’t sugarcoat it,” I grumbled.
“I think you’ve had enough sugar,” he said dryly as he turned back to the TV. “Go to bed.”
“I saw the guy on his knees, I saw the other one hit him. I saw the other one hold him up after he hit him, and then he shot him. I didn’t even know he had shot him until he fell forward.” It all came out in a rush. Once I had started talking, it was as if the floodgates opened. “I don’t know what the guy who was shot looked like, he was facing away from me. The one who shot him is…tall? Maybe? I dunno, average height. He could be slim, he could be carrying extra weight, I don’t know.” I gasped for breath. “I can’t even tell you what colour his hair is,” I said with a despairing shake of my head. “I didn’t even see you. Not until you lit the cigarette, and then all I knew was someone was smoking!” I dropped onto the seat again, my head in my hands. “I really saw nothing. I don’t know who died. I don’t know who shot him. All I know is you.”
Cool hands covered mine. I hadn’t even heard him rise from his seat. He tugged gently on my hands, and I looked up at him warily as he crouched in front of me.
“You’re emotional, go to bed.”
That was it? I’d told him everything and that was it? Go to bed? “Please,” I whispered. I tugged his hands back to me as he tried to let go, holding on to him desperately, ignoring his look of surprise. “I swear, I’ll never tell.”
His hand stroked over my hair in a gesture of…comfort? His gentleness completely threw me. “Bed, Devon, you need to sleep.” He stepped back from me and returned to his seat.
Sighing, I stood. “I’ll go, but in the morning, will you talk to me? Tell me what you want?”
“If I’m here.”
Well, what did that mean? Confused and exhausted, I grabbed my blanket and pillows and went up the stairs to the bedroom. Brushing my teeth, I stared at myself hard. My hair was loose and far too long, but after two weeks at the shelter and my few days here, I looked better. My skin had a healthier colour to it, my nails were no longer chewed stumps, they had some actual nail growing. My eyes didn’t have the black bags I had been sporting for almost two years. I looked…good?
Closing the door, ignoring the busted lock, I took a shower. I’d been on the couch for two days almost, I needed to freshen up so I was ready for him in the morning. If he was here. What did that mean? I’m counting on him being here tomorrow, I thought as I came out of the bathroom and noticed the bag on the bed. Opening it, I pulled out bras and panties. He had bought me underwear. Or got someone to buy me underwear, even socks. At the bottom were a pair of slippers, and I bit my lip to stop the smile. I would not think nice things about him. It was his fault I had no underwear for three days.
Tiredly, I climbed into bed closing my eyes. I was almost asleep before my eyes flew open at the realisation I felt safer with him in the penthouse. What was that about? Three times he had confirmed he hadn’t decided if he was going to kill me.
So why the hell did he still make me feel safe?
In the morning, I was outside his bedroom door waiting, resting against the opposite wall as I waited for him to come out. I had been here for a while. Before I took up camp outside his door, I had checked downstairs to make sure he wasn’t there. The living area was tidied, the dishes gone, but he was nowhere to be found.
He had to be in his room.
I waited.
I waited some more.
I began to suspect he had left me.
I got up and knocked on his door. Nothing. I kicked the door several times in frustration.
I sat back down.
Sometime later, I went back downstairs and glared at the front door.
The bastard had left me here. Again.
At this rate, I wouldn’t have to worry about him killing me, I was going to strangle him. I smiled grimly as I remembered my promise to myself to make him bleed. Stalking over to the kitchen drawers, I found a nice sharp knife and went back to the seat at the island, directly in front of the door, and waite
d.
Two hours later, he came through the door, and as he turned to close the door behind him, I stood and threw the knife.
I missed him.
Spectacularly.
He turned and looked at me and then the knife as it lay harmlessly on the floor. He glanced at me once more before crossing the floor and scooping it up. I stood frozen. He flicked the knife once in his hand, catching it expertly before he flung it.
Right at me.
I screeched as I felt it whip past me and land with a thud in the wall behind me. I spun to stare at it, my mouth open. I turned back to him, and he was in front of me.
Right in front of me.
Furious.
Shit.
“You left me!” I protested as I stepped backwards. I was not running.
“You have shit aim.” He walked around me and the island into the kitchen. Reaching over, he pulled the knife out of the wall and tossed it into the sink.
I had been ready to shout, scream, hit if I had to. His comment on my aim took the wind out of my sails, and his casual indifference at the fact I threw a knife at him threw me off balance. “It’s been a while since I threw one,” I muttered as I followed him.
“Sit.” He gestured to the stool as he took off his suit jacket. Placing it over a kitchen stool, he reached for an orange.
“Are you ill?” I asked as I avoided looking at the gun in his holster.
For the first time, he looked startled. “What?”
“Oranges.” I pointed to the fruit as he unpeeled it. “You’re always eating them.”
He looked down at his hands and the fruit in question. He placed it down. “Habit.” Raphe casually leaned against the counter behind him. “So, knife throwing?”
“You left me. Again.”
“You were sleeping. I had something to take care of.”
“You could have woken me,” I said sullenly. What was I doing? Grumbling like a child when I should be screaming. “Can you lose the gun?”
“No.”
“You’re a bastard, do you know that?” I asked him with a glare.
He raised the eyebrow. “Tell me what else you saw.”
“I told you last night.” I folded my hands in my lap.
Raphe crossed the short space from the other side of the kitchen to the island, and removing the gun from his holster, he tucked it into the back of his black pants. He uncuffed his sleeves on his button-down, black again, and folded his sleeves up. Slowly, purposefully. It was fascinating seeing inch by inch of golden skin exposed, the light blond hair on his arms looked soft.
Devon, maybe stop perving on the serial killer?
He sat across from me and reached for the orange. As he unpeeled it, he split it into segments and wordlessly pushed half of it to me. “Tell me again.”
“Raphe! I told you.” I shook my head in frustration. “Can you tell me how long I need to be here for?”
“Tell me again,” he instructed softly as he bit into his orange segment, his stare unwavering from mine. His look was slightly warmer today, still hard, still impenetrable, but not as glacial.
“I heard noises, it woke me up, I’d been sleeping for a while.” I looked away, suddenly ashamed of myself for sleeping in the street. No, not for sleeping in the street, that I had no control over, but sleeping in the day. I felt embarrassed. “I heard thumping, like something heavy being hit, but it was…” I scratched my arm as I thought, still avoiding his stare.
“It was…what?”
“It was like a punch bag. Like when someone hits a punch bag but with no force…” I nodded as I thought about it. “Yeah, like that, you know?” I looked at him, and he nodded. “There’s never any noise in the alley, not from there. It has vehicle access, but at that time of night, nothing comes up there. The restaurant is the only noise usually.”
“What time of night do you think it was?” he asked me quietly as he picked up the next portion of fruit.
Rubbing my forehead, I thought about it. “The restaurant was quieter, it was later, after closing, I think, but not closed for the staff.”
“Do you own a watch?”
“I own nothing,” I snorted in amusement as I met his steady gaze with my own. “Homeless, remember?”
“You heard a noise, you recognised the restaurant was quiet, then what?”
“I went to look.”
He leaned back and appraised me. “Why?”
“Jimmy was gone.”
“Jimmy?”
“My friend, he lives in the same alley. He had been drunk earlier, and sometimes when he gets lucky, he goes and tries to find more. I woke up and heard the noise, then saw Jimmy was gone. I didn’t know if it was Jimmy that I was hearing.”
“Does he often go around that side of the building?” Raphe asked me curiously.
I frowned. “No, never.”
“Keep talking.”
“I thought it may have been Jimmy, I was worried. I knew I should leave it.” I reached over and grabbed the orange peel, ignoring the actual fruit, tearing the peel into smaller chunks as I spoke. “But what if he was being hurt?” I looked up at Raphe to see if he understood, his stare was hard again. I looked back at the orange peel. “You don’t get involved, it’s the number one rule on the street. If it isn’t about you, you walk away.” I started piling shredded orange peels on top of each other. “But Jimmy was my friend, he looked out for me, he kept me safe at night.”
“Safe?”
“From Benny the pimp or others who think a woman on the street means she must be a whore, or worse, an easy lay they don’t need to pay.” The scorn was heavy in my voice, and I stared at the counter as I recalled the two times I had almost been attacked.
“And you’re not?” My eyes flashed at him angrily, and he nodded once. “Carry on.”
“So I couldn’t leave him,” I said defensively. “I had to make sure it wasn’t Jimmy.” I looked at Raphe, searching to see if he understood. His face was blank. “I went up the alley, and I almost didn’t look, I almost ran right out of there, but I had to be sure.”
“It wasn’t Jimmy,” Raphe said dryly.
“No.” I huffed out a laugh.
“How long before you realised it wasn’t your…friend?”
“Instantly.” I gave a derisive snort. “I saw the guy on his knees, his hands behind his back, tied?” I glanced at Raphe, he shrugged slightly. “The asshole who was hitting him, I didn’t see his face. He had longish hair, it was falling across his face. He had a jacket on, I think it was a suit?” Again I looked to Raphe for confirmation, and he merely waited for me to continue. “The beaten man spoke, and then he was shot.”
Raphe leaned forward. “What did he say?”
“He told him to finish it,” I whispered as tears threatened as I relived the moment of his death. “He told him just to finish it.” A tear trickled over, and I wiped it angrily away. “The bastard turned and looked at you.” I hesitated, that wasn’t right. “No, not you, the car.” I raised my eyes to look at Raphe. “He looked to the car. To someone in the car.” The sudden drop of my stomach made me freeze. My eyes squeezed shut in resignation.
Oh shit.
“Devon, look at me.”
I shook my head, and I refused to open my eyes. Strong hands took hold of my upper arms, and I was turned gently in the seat. “Devon, open your eyes.”
Tears slipped under my closed lashes. “I won’t tell. I didn’t even know there was someone else, I swear. I didn’t see them. I didn’t see you until you lit the cigarette. Raphe, I didn’t see.” My voice was desperate, and the tears were streaming.
“Open your eyes,” he said to me softly. I opened them when I felt the brush of a thumb on my cheek. “You saw more than you think.” He was holding onto my arms with a light grip as he leaned back and down to my eye level. “You didn’t even realise until this moment, that there may have been someone in the car. You didn’t really realise until this moment, that if it was me with the cigarette, th
en there was someone else.”
“Oranges.”
“What?” He watched me carefully.
“You’re trying to quit, aren’t you? You eat oranges to keep your hands occupied.” I wiped my eyes dry. “I didn’t realise. It’s common in smokers; they feel empty without something in their hands.”
“And that’s three things you didn’t realise until this morning that you knew.” Raphe let go of me. “Do you see my problem?”
Bizarrely, I nodded. I did see why he wanted me close. “Shit.” I looked at him and sighed in defeat. “Now what?”
Raphe walked back around to his side of the counter. “I haven’t decided.”
“Jesus, Raphe. I can’t live like this.” I put my elbows onto the counter and rested my head in my hands as I stared at the pristine white tabletop.
“Beats the streets, no?” He was back to watching me again.
“On the streets, I was living.”
“Were you?”
“Yes!” I stood up angrily. “In here? Here, I’m just waiting to die.”
“We all die, Devon.”
“Yeah, well, I was hoping for a few more years,” I grumbled heatedly.
“You’re not dead yet.”
I looked at him in exasperation as he sat there in his black uniform, his hair styled, his slight stubble covering his jaw in a light dust of hair. How could a killer look so…normal? “Wow,” I bit out dryly. “I’ll have that as my epitaph, thanks.”
Raphe smiled. Not the flash of teeth he had given me before. This was a smile. A genuine shit-you-not smile.
“Still fighting,” he told me with amusement as he stood.
“You smiled,” I blurted in stunned wonder.
He instantly lost the smile. “I won’t do it again.”
“And you made a joke.” I ran my hands through my hair, I’d officially lost my mind. “You made one last night too.” Why was this even relevant?
“Sleep deprivation.”
I squinted at him. “You did it again.”
“No, I didn’t.” He watched me carefully, even as he seemed…guarded.
“I can’t do this. I can’t stay here and…and wait.” I flung my hands in the air in exasperation. “I sure as hell can’t do it with you smiling and making jokes.”
Beautifully Broken (The Denver Series Book 2) Page 10