Glancing at the time, I realize I have less than two hours to get my shit packed and make sure I’m in position.
Slowly backing away, I press my lit-up phone screen to my thundering chest and look at Rosalie’s window one more time, wondering if she’s going to make another appearance tonight.
My dick twitches at all the memories of seeing her up there. Sometimes she prances around naked, flaunting her perky breasts and rosy nipples. Other times, she stands in front of the window topless, like she’s daring me to look.
I’m not a pervert or a pedophile like Jimbo6969 probably is.
See, Rosalie’s not as young as she thinks. Tomorrow isn’t her birthday and she’s not going to be eighteen. In reality, she turned nineteen back in September. Loralee must’ve underestimated Rosalie’s age when she took her, and she assigned her the birth date of her stillborn child.
Speaking of Jimbo6969, he needs to learn a lesson. Anonymously forwarding his video to Jen Harding sounds like a good idea, and I do just that, smiling with satisfaction when the email goes through. I’ll consider it my good deed for the day. Solitaire Slam attracts a lot of minors, with its bright colors and hyper techno music.
Also, I hate the idea of anyone else hitting on Rosalie. She might be an adult, but that fucker tried to corrupt my girl with his limp dick.
And that’s what I’ve come to think of her as—my girl. It doesn’t matter if it’s not true. My heart refuses to receive that memo.
It’s been a long time since I wanted to claim something for my own. Growing up, nothing was permanent. Possessions came and went, just like parental figures and friends.
But I want Rosalie so bad I can barely stand it. Of course, maybe I’m just fooling myself thinking she’d want me back, but a guy can hope.
Even if it means crossing Ivan.
Yeah, he paid me fifty-thousand in cash up front, and I’ll get the other half if I deliver Rosalie to him.
And that’s a big if, because I want what’s best for her. Is that Ivan? I’m skeptical.
That detective Ivan hired? He ended up dead in a shallow grave after he discovered Rosalie’s location. Some hikers found him in the forest with half of his skull blown off. If that’s what loyalty earns someone, I don’t want to find out what betrayal will get me.
A few seconds later, blond hair comes into view in the window, along with sparkling eyes. Rosalie’s irises are so light, they almost look like they’re glowing. A beacon in the night.
My lighthouse.
That puzzle I had when I was a kid… it was of a lighthouse on a rocky shore. And the colors I remember most were blue and green, just like her eyes.
I almost scoff when I see the frilly white nightgown she’s wearing. Her mother dresses her like an old-fashioned doll.
No, not her mother. I have to stop thinking that way.
That woman might be the only parent Rosalie remembers, but Loralee Pearson is a liar, a criminal, and a fraud. A cheapskate, too.
For a millionaire, she sure does pinch her pennies.
She doesn’t pay me enough to take care of this property year-round, and she makes me work with old basic tools instead of investing in a fucking leaf blower or some shit. To make things worse, she recently added grocery shopping to my list of duties. I’ve considered a lot of different careers for myself, but a personal shopper was never one of them.
My living arrangements leave a lot to be desired, too. The guest suite above the detached garage is half-finished and roach infested. Sometimes the water heater goes out. The mini fridge isn’t big enough to store food to last a week, and a plug-in hot plate is all I’ve got to cook with.
Of course, I’m not here for the accommodations. I don’t mind the small space, the unpainted drywall, the bugs, or even the cold showers.
I have one purpose and one purpose only—make sure Rosalie gets away from this hellhole. My only mission is her safety and freedom.
The pretty girl tilts her head to the side and starts using her reflection in the glass to braid her hair. My fingers itch to touch the silky strands she’s weaving with her delicate fingers.
I want to be the one braiding it. Twisting it. Tying it.
After securing it with a band, she raises her arms and smooths some flyaway hairs from her face. The action causes the thin fabric of her gown to stretch across her breasts, putting the outline of her nipples on display.
Off-key humming comes from the cracked window, and as Rosalie sways, she sings the saddest, loneliest rendition of happy birthday I’ve ever heard.
She won’t be alone for much longer.
Soon, we’ll be together.
Leaning against my door, I press my ear to the wood and listen as the grandfather clock chimes eleven times.
“Come on,” I whisper, antsy to get the show on the road.
Talking to myself is a bad habit, but I can’t help it. It’s a consequence of being isolated for so long. Or a blessing. I can play out entire conversations with myself and no one. That’s a talent, right?
Less than a minute later, I hear the shuffling of footsteps, the creak of a door, and the click of a lock.
Right on time.
In about five minutes, my mom will be popping her pills and falling into a deep sleep for at least six hours. Give or take a little bit.
It’s enough time for me to get to the train station before she wakes up.
Nerves make my hands shake as I rush over to yank my backpack out from under my bed. Unzipping it, I spy my fanny pack inside. My leftover medication is in there, and I raise tonight’s pill to my teeth to bite it in half.
Swallowing, I consider taking the whole thing.
Tonight might be a full-dose kind of night.
There’s a risk versus benefit to think about. My pills make me sleepy, and that’s not helpful when I need to be up all night. On the other hand, I need to be calm enough to focus.
Half a pill, I decide, stashing the rest away with my other extras. I can’t afford to be sluggish.
A cold breeze blows through my window as I quickly get dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, reminding me my good winter coat is in the closet downstairs next to the front door. I won’t be able to get to it with how creaky the floorboards are.
Well, it looks like I’ll be freezing my butt off.
After layering on a second sweatshirt, I rush around the room to grab a few last-minute essentials. My toothbrush, a handful of underwear, and some socks. I cram my makeup bag into the front pouch of my backpack. Grabbing a couple of bottles of water from my mini-fridge, I slide them into the side pockets. By the time I stuff my laptop in with everything else, the zipper is practically busting at the seams.
I look at the little laundry chute door.
Shit.
I can’t get down to the basement with my bag. All the times I practiced before, it was without any cumbersome objects weighing me down.
If I drop the backpack first, my laptop might break, and I can’t let that happen. It’s my line of communication to Jessa.
Getting an idea, I look to my closet and walk over to the open doors. All my dresses and nightgowns are hung neatly, sorted by color.
Trailing my fingers over the cotton and lace, I experience an annoying stab of guilt. My mom made all of these for me with her own hands. When I asked her how she did it, she said she made them with love.
Well, these are going to be of use to me now.