Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 85228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
"What happens next?"
After a long sip of water, I place the glass on a drink coaster on the nearby table.
"I need to make sure he doesn't come back."
"Shouldn't we call the police?"
I fully understand her instinct. Like many others in society, I imagine she thinks of the police as fully trained specialists who solve every crime reported to them, but that's far from the truth.
"For stalking?" she continues when I remain silent.
"Stalking requires a pattern, Caitlyn. You said you've never seen him outside of your house before."
"I haven't," she confirms.
"So it doesn't fit the elements of a crime."
Her lower lip trembles, and I doubt she's very far away from crying.
"We can be proactive," I tell her, stepping further into the room. "I'm going to check your windows."
"What keeps him from breaking a window to get in?" she asks as she follows me down the dark hallway.
I don't respond to the question because I know she won't like the answer. Locks are for law-abiding people. Most criminals expect to encounter them, and they always have a means to bypass them.
"Caitlyn," I grumble when I find the bathroom window unlocked.
She presses her back flat to the wall when I step back into the hallway, allowing me to pass without touching her.
I find three more windows unlocked—one in her bedroom and both of the windows in the kitchen.
"I never open the windows," she says when I turn back to face her.
Concern pulls my brows together. "Have you checked these recently?"
She shakes her head. "I don't think I've ever checked them. I just assumed they were locked when I moved in."
"How long have you lived here?" I ask when I test the lock on the back door.
"Two years," she answers.
"So you have no idea if the windows have been unlocked for two solid years or if that creepy asshole unlocked them earlier tonight in an effort to get into your house unnoticed?"
Her face turns white as snow as she considers the implications of my question.
"Caitlyn?" I say, stepping closer to her.
I pause when she moves back a step, taking no solace when her little dog's tail begins to wag.
"Sorry," I whisper.
"How long do you plan to stay here?"
"I can't leave until I know you're safe. Can you look around and see if anything is disturbed? See if anything is missing?"
She pulls in a deep yet ragged breath before turning to look around the living room.
"He's likely to take more personal things," I explain. "A creep like that isn't going to come in and steal your TV."
"I don't have any pictures."
The innocence in her eyes makes me feel like a complete asshole for the way I'm about to destroy her wholesomeness, but the woman has to have heard some pretty fucked-up stuff as a therapist, not taking into account where I first saw her.
"Things like your underwear, more specifically the ones in your dirty clothes hamper."
Her nose scrunches as if she can't believe anyone would ever do such a thing, but in the next breath, she lowers her dog to the floor and disappears down the hallway.
I take my position back at the front window as I wait for her to return.
Fear that the guy has already gone further than I initially imagined begins to settle inside me when it takes her a little too long to return to the living room.
I turn to go find her, but before I can, I see her reflection in the glass and realize that maybe I should be on the front porch keeping her safe instead of inside breathing the same air.
"Nothing is missing," she says, relief in her tone.
I shove my hands into the pockets of my jeans as I face her, diligent about keeping my eyes on her face rather than letting them roam down the front of that very same fucking silk robe she was wearing the other night.
"That's good," I manage.
"I was thinking. Shouldn't we at least call the police so there's a record of his behavior?"
"Do you know his name?" I challenge, knowing there might come a time very soon that I might need to disappear the guy, and the fewer people involved in this, the better.
"I bet we could get it from the club," she offers.
"They protect that information like they would medical records at a doctor's office," I clarify. "But would you like to have that conversation with the local authorities?"
She pauses, and I watch as she chews the inside of her cheek.
There should be no judgment about how consenting adults spend their time, but there are loads of stigma around anything that might be outside of what people consider traditional or the norm. Hell, you can't spend more than a couple of evenings at a bar these days without people thinking you're an alcoholic.
"How do we find out who he is then?"