Creature of Habit (Creature of Habit #1)

by Angel Lawson

  Vitamin-Water

  Q-Tips

  Water with Vitamins? That sounded revolutionary. What kind of store sold apple sauce and socks?

  I shoved the list away, feeling even more confused about my assistant. I thought about what I did know. I had read her recommendation from Mr. Hudson and her resume. She’d been commended for her work ethic and organizational skills. She wasn’t at the top of her class but had plans for furthering her education in the future. Genevieve was impressed and thought she would do well here.

  On a personal level I knew she was from Atlanta. Parents still married. No siblings. What else was there to know? Oh, she smelled fantastic.

  I spent the rest of the day retracing her footsteps. In the kitchen she had used a glass and a mug from the cabinet. There was a tea bag in the trashcan. In the refrigerator I found soy milk and Greek yogurt. In the storage closet the light bulbs were stacked perfectly and slightly angled to fit on the shelf in even numbers.

  She’d been everywhere. Some clearly to perform her work duties. Others seemed to be random wanderings. In the parlor I found imprints of her shoes in the carpet near my Cezanne. She’d been in the library, leaving oily fingerprints on the covers of my Shakespeare. In the bathroom I could smell lemons on the hand towels.

  She had marked every inch of my home.

  None of this told me much, I knew, but it was all I could do for the moment. I knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to go find her and figure out how exactly she’d been able to resist my command. That would be my first question. Okay, realistically that would be my only question. I sincerely doubted she’d live much longer to answer any more.

  Unable to do what I wanted, I retreated to my private quarters, cancelling my plans for the weekend. I sent the binders she made by courier to the office and made my presentation by Skype. I delved into my papers and attempted to follow my typical routine. That was how an addict fought a full-fledged relapse. Go back to habits. Ingrain them.

  That was how I pushed through the weekend.

  I lied to myself, pretending I didn't care to know more about the mysterious Amelia Chase by studiously researching or cataloging information about the murders in the area. Perhaps, I considered, after reading about a particularly bloody kill, I considered she was some sort of test. Something to prepare me for a future battle. Maybe she was delivered by the Divine. Those were the lies I told myself when I left my papers and computer searches to escape into my closet to press my nose to any article of clothing she may have touched.

  A test. She was simply a test. One I could successfully pass—like all other challenges over the course of my lifetime.

  I ignored my phone and its incessant ringing. I pushed away the outside world. She was outside and I wasn’t ready to face anything beyond these walls.

  By the end of Sunday I was thoroughly exhausted but had made some decisions. I stretched out on the floor of my dressing room and inhaled the lingering hint of lemon. Amelia Chase was an enigma. That much I was willing to admit. But she wouldn't defeat me or my mission. I would use this as a challenge to further my discipline and focus.

  And if it didn't work I would let her go and find a new assistant.

  For now I would immerse myself in her smell and struggle to become stronger.

  Chapter 9

  Amelia

  On Monday I paced the sidewalk outside Mr. Palmer’s building and gave myself a pep talk. Like a complete, “You’ve got this, Mel!” speech, which really just made me feel worse and not better.

  To a passerby I was sure I looked unbalanced, and I probably qualified. I didn't know many other people who would be willing to go back to a job environment as hostile as this one. Okay, hostile may be an exaggeration. All he did was ask me to leave in the calmest, smoothest, creepiest voice I had ever heard. Call it intuition, but it felt like more than a simple request. I wasn't someone who would quit a job for trivial reasons. Mr. Palmer being creepy, as far as I was concerned, counted as trivial.

  It was a beautiful day, the first truly warm weather we’d had this summer. Even in the warmer months it remained cool in the mountains. People had a tendency to take advantage and stay outside as much as possible when the opportunity arose. I secretly hoped Mr. Palmer would be out of the house all day and would stay away from me in general.

  So, with one last, "Grant Palmer can fuck himself," mumbled under my breath, I stepped off the sidewalk and up the steps leading to the front door. That was until I saw the front door. Or actually, some of the front door. Okay there was a door, but the glass looked like someone had detonated a bomb, leaving splinters of wood peeling from the edges of the frame.

  “What the hell?” I asked. The door looked like someone smashed something into the it like a battering ram. I tiptoed over the mess, crushing glass and pieces of wood under my shoes and breathed a sigh of relief that the key worked. Yes, even through all that the door was locked and beyond that, I really didn’t want to ring the bell.

  Just inside the foyer an ugly tangle of wires and metal hung from the former security box. Side-stepping the mess, I looked to hang my coat and bag on the hook in the hall. It too had been torn off the wall. Whatever happened here came from the inside, not out.

  I listened carefully.

  “Hello?” I called. Okay, ‘called’ may be a little much. Whispered? I didn’t really want to alert Mr. Palmer or a robber or the S.W.A.T. team that tore through that door about my presence. I was met with silence. I wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing. I had previously decided to treat this day like any other, like Friday evening hadn't occurred. Obviously there were bigger problems to deal with.

  A list waited for me at my desk and thankfully, none of the notations were for me to pack up my belongings and leave. An additional message was at the bottom of the page.

  Ms. Chase,

  Please contact Asheville Handymen to come repair the door as well as Smokey Mountain Security. Both of these jobs need to be completed by the end of the day-GP

  I flipped the heavy cardstock note over, but that was it. No explanation other than instructions to stay in the home with the workers at all times. The normal list had plenty of items on it to keep me busy while the repairs were being completed.

  Okay, maybe Mr. Palmer wasn’t just creepy but downright crazy.

  I turned on the computer and found the address book with all the contact information for Mr. Palmer's needs. I called the handyman service.

  “Asheville Handymen, this is Jack.”

  “Jack, I’m calling from Mr. Palmer’s office and we are in desperate need of your service.”

  “Oh! Mr. Palmer! Of course, what do you need?” He sounded like he may have wet himself.

  “Yeah, we’ve got a bit of a problem over here. You’re going to have to see it yourself.”

  “I’ll have my best team there in an hour. Probably less.”

  “What? No, standard 6 hour time frame like the cable company?” I wasn’t surprised though. Even in my short time working for Mr. Palmer it was obvious how the rich received special treatment. To be fair, if Mr. Palmer trusted him in his home he probably paid him very well.

  While I waited for them to arrive, I busied myself with my latest project; the ridiculously tedious task of updating names and addresses into a new program recently installed on the computer. Mr. Palmer wanted this to be linked to his phone and laptop. I stared at the intimidating list. Sometimes I felt like this house was caught between two worlds. One modern and one a little old-fashioned. Like the current project. I had to take the handwritten names and add them to the database. Why were they handwritten in the first place? Whatever, I thought.

  Not my business.

  I bit the bullet and began working. I had made it through one and a half pages of Mr. Palmer’s perfectly perfect handwriting when the front door rang. Expecting the workmen, I rushed over to open the door, and was surprised to see it was a postal delivery man carrying a massive box in both hands.

  “I’v
e got a package for Mr. Palmer,” the man said.

  “I’ll sign for it,” I said.

  “What the heck happened to this door? You guys get robbed?”

  “It was like this when I got here. I haven’t quite figured it out myself.”

  He shook his head and asked where I wanted the box. I pointed to my office to get it out of the way of the mess.

  As he was, leaving a van pulled up with the logo for the handymen on the side. I waited for them at the front door. Two men close to my age walked up the front steps in jeans and matching work shirts. They stopped before the porch, jaws dropped, taking in the broken door.

  "So, I guess I don't have to tell you what's wrong," I said, gesturing to the mess behind me.

  The one with the name Thomas embroidered on his pocket spoke up and said, "No, I think we can figure it out. But how the heck did this happen?"

  "I have no idea. Mr. Palmer only left me instructions to call you and have it repaired.”

  The other man, whose name was Mark, swung the door open and shut while scratching his head. "Doesn't matter how it happened, I guess, but I hate to tell you this is going to be a pretty big job."

  I frowned. “How big?"

  "Obviously you’ll need a new door, but we’ll have to repair the door jamb first. Once the security system is back up and running we’ll have to come inside and replace the interior wall. That’s original plaster so we’ll have to touch it up also, oh and the glass.”

  “Can you at least get it fixed today? Mr. Palmer requested it be finished before the end of the day.”

  Thomas looked over the damage again. "It's gonna take us at least until late afternoon to get the first coat of plaster on. You may want to tell the security guys to come later today."

  “I guess you better get started,” I said, turning to walk back to my desk. “I have a feeling he’d like it done as soon as possible.”

  Thomas nodded and then turned back to me. “I’ll call in a couple more guys. Uh, I don’t think I got your name…you know, in case we need you for something."

  I turned back toward him and noticed he had nice brown eyes and a friendly smile, which I returned. I offered my hand. "I'm Amelia. Amelia Chase."

  He gripped it in his own. "Nice to meet you, Amelia."

  I left them to their work and went back to my desk to call the security company. They promised to come by 4 PM which would give Thomas and Mark a chance to get a good head start. Off and on I checked on the guys to see if they needed water and peek at their progress as they dismantled what remained of the door off its hinges. Each time I saw the mess I was left with the same question, how did this happen in the first place?

  Chapter 10

  Grant

  Monday rolled around and even though I felt steadier on my feet, I decided to spend the day in my study, leaving Ms. Chase to handle the repair men. At my desk, I switched on the computer and sat back in my leather chair. My study was part work space, part Grant Palmer museum. Collectibles lined the walls, although not expensive ones like I had downstairs. No, these were items I had collected over my lifetime—things I held dear that no one outside of my family had been privy to. In contrast to my personal items, an extremely sophisticated computer system sat on my desk. The system held everything about my life and job. Not just the Foundation but my other, more personal work. Privacy and security were a must and the information most damning to the carefully crafted career and persona of Grant Palmer were all held in this room.

  To use a term from popular culture, I was sitting in my very own Bat Cave. Or, probably more accurately, my Fortress of Solitude.

  It was a large room, converted out of the former industrial space that the building had originally been used for. I had it customized years ago when I purchased the property. The walls were sound and fire proof, although I was able to hear faint noises through the walls if I focused. Manual and electronic locks secured both the doors and windows, which included sensors and alarms that if triggered were sent directly to me regardless of my location via phone or watch.

  As befuddled as Ms. Chase made me, with her unreadable expression and lack of accessible personal information, I did have other methods of observing her. I flicked the switch on the monitors and they sprung to life, filling the screens with images. One was a normal monitor that opened directly to a password prompting page, to which I was the only one who had access. I watched the other larger monitor come in focus and I was able to see multiple locations throughout the building. The entire structure was constantly being filmed by high-tech, hidden security cameras, excluding this room and my bedroom. Normally I didn’t allow outside help to come in and do much of the work around the house as part of my public image, but not this. Elijah and I rigged this whole set up together and no one but the two of us knew it was here. Well, other than Olivia, of course. I learned long ago it was pointless to try to keep secrets from her.

  Cameras filmed the front door and walkway, the foyer, parlor, kitchen, garage, back alley, the front and back stairways to the second floor, the common area upstairs, and my closet. These cameras were state of the art, military grade, although not necessarily from our military. I could see with perfect clarity small movements or the writing on a piece of paper. It was excessive, but I had a desire for the best, and this was it. I didn't use this system every day, but after an attempt of retaliation by a business acquaintance I realized I couldn't rely on my senses alone. Friday night, Amelia Chase confirmed this for me once again.

  It had taken all weekend to figure out exactly what had thrown me about Ms. Chase. The fact that her scent was so powerful was strange. I’d heard of irresistible prey before—something so delicious you couldn’t pass it up, but this seemed even beyond that. I hadn’t even realized she was prey. My head pounded and her heart beat tricked me. It was like she flooded my senses to the point of overriding them.

  That was unheard of.

  Determined to get back to normal, I spent the early morning hours cross referencing dates, locations and victim names from the previous week's papers. Although many were random, I noticed a pattern emerging, and it looked like it was moving closer and closer to the city. I had a large map on my desk, a charting program and Google Earth up on my computer. I entered the data I'd collected and was able to track his movements. If I was right, he’d make another attempt tonight. This time I would be ready.

  At approximately nine in the morning, a figure crossed the security monitor. I watched Ms. Chase stop abruptly in front of the house. I studied her body language, curious to glean anything about her. I noticed her shoulders were bunched up, tense. Her forehead creased with lines. She began pacing back and forth, speaking to someone—or no, I quickly realized, she spoke to herself. I focused on her pink lips and made out the words, ‘Grant Palmer’ and ‘Fuck himself’.

  Ouch.

  I continued to watch her but leaned back in my seat, running a hand through my hair. Why was she angry at me? Granted, I was a bit abrupt on Friday night, but did I really deserve a ‘fuck himself’? That seemed extreme. I’d simply asked her to leave the house. For her own safety. Sure, she didn’t know that, but really, the other options would have been terribly unpleasant.

  Or, did she know? Did she sense something? Did a primal instinct kick in? The tell-tale hairs on the back of her neck or a tingling sensation warning her about a dangerous hunter nearby?

  Things kept getting more interesting. Or rather, she kept getting more interesting.

  Despite my justifications, her reaction piqued my interest. I observed as she came to the top of the steps and warily eyed the damaged door. I grimaced seeing it through her eyes. That was definitely not one of my better moments, but thankfully the mess didn’t deter her from entering the house.

  thump thump thump

  I could hear the faint, pulsing beats behind my insulated fortress. I shook it off. I’d prepared for this—for her. I settled myself and got back to work.

  The Predator liked to accost women
on familiar territory. Snatching them in the comfort of fading daylight. I said he snatched, but really, he had others do his work. What was probability of each attempt having been successful? Had any of his victims escaped? Doubtful, but it was an angle worth pursuing. A living victim could break this case.

  My eyes shifted to the monitors and I found myself wrapped up in Ms. Chase’s moves. I watched. I observed. Okay, fine. I spied. I wanted to see Ms. Chase. I assessed that she wasn’t very tall, with curvy hips and thin arms and legs. She had a thick head of blonde hair, which again was tied behind her neck. Why did she wear it this way? Was it easier to work? So many questions passed through my mind as I studied her and her movements, the interactions with the workers that came in and out of the house. I searched for a reason to dismiss her—something inappropriate or unprofessional, but it never came. From my current viewpoint she was the perfect assistant. I needed to resolve my problems and let her do her job so that I could continue with mine, because I had work to do. Important work. Possibly life-saving work. Wait—

  I leaned forward. What was that man doing? The handyman. I made out the lettering on his shirt—Thomas. While the other worker, Mark, focused on the task at hand, Thomas couldn't keep his eyes off Ms. Chase.

  Adjusting the volume, I leaned closer to the monitor, eyes scanning every angle. It wasn’t that Thomas was watching her, it was how Thomas was watching her. Where Ms. Chase’s body language was hard to read, this guy…well, his motives were clear. The way he held himself, he…what was it called? Flirting. He flirted with her. Smiling and puffing up his chest.

  I didn’t like it.

  Not one bit.

  They went to do their respective jobs, the men at the door and Ms. Chase at her desk. I got up from my seat and paced the room for a while, processing the information I had gathered this morning.

  My assistant was brave, returning to work even though I had been potentially dangerous to her at our last meeting. This, of course, could also be interpreted as stupid, risky behavior. I also noted she was diligent, hardworking, and surprisingly professional. In my opinion, that countered the stupidity.