Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 73861 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73861 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
If I had to choose a name for his style, I would call it "soft rustic." By that, I meant that the wood was stained a provincial shade that matched the warm-toned light brown walls and the deep brown leather furniture perfectly. Add in some splashes of burnt orange, light gray, and green, and you had a space that was begging you to come in, sit down, and stay for a while.
"Okay, fine, if you wanted to throw your superior interior decorating style in my face, you could have just said so," I said, shooting him small eyes that made his lips twitch.
"I like your style. It's eccentric."
"Which is a nice way of saying I didn't actually plan it, just threw everything I liked at the common space and hoped it somewhat went together."
"It goes together. And it has character. This is just a style. It doesn't really have any personal touches."
"And yet I feel like it is very you," I told him, running a hand over his stomach as I passed in my way to inspect the art on a gallery wall in his living room.
"I am just going to go grab some new clothes," he said, waving toward the other end of the house.
"Okey dokey. Fair warning, I am going to be snooping. In your medicine cabinet and your nightstands. In the depths of your closet..."
"I wouldn't expect anything else," he said, shooting me a smirk before moving off.
I liked that about him.
He didn't seem bothered at the idea of leaving me alone to poke my nose in all of his personal business. Which, I felt, told me he was comfortable with me being there, that he had nothing to hide.
Which, in turn, made me feel like I had less reason to snoop.
So I found myself doing very little, save to look in his pantry to see what kinds of snacks he liked to keep around, and to play around on his TV to see what shows he recorded.
Back in his bedroom, I heard the vacuum turn on, and found myself smiling at that as I made my way outside, checking out his backyard, maybe even letting myself fantasize about seeing Yogurt playing around out there one day, lounging in the shade of one of the big trees while Finn and I attempted to get frisky on a hammock.
I wasn't even going toward the garage.
I'd been following the path of a small bunny as it munched on some clover when I suddenly found myself at the side door of it.
A side door with a glass window.
And, well, we've established that I'm nosy.
I didn't feel like I had much of a choice but to glance in.
Just a glance, nothing more.
Except what I found was weird enough to have me stiffening.
Bottles and bottles and bottles of cleaner. Like a lifetime supply of the stuff. But also several boxed vacuums, brand new mops, buckets.
And I'm not talking about enough for a year or so. Hey, who was I to judge people who bought in bulk to save a little money?
No.
This was like ten year's worth of cleaning supplies. Long enough that the vacuums might not even work when he got around to using them like a normal—or somewhat cleaner than normal—person would.
There was a tingle of uncertainty at the base of my spine as my hand went for the door handle.
It was something akin to disappointment inside when I found it turned in my hand. Because if it was locked, that would have been the end of this. I may have asked one day, but I wouldn't have kept prying.
But it turned.
And something ugly inside urged me forward, begged me to investigate.
Heart hammering in my chest, I moved into the garage, finding it—like everything else Finn touched—immaculate. Not so much as a stray cobweb crowded a corner, or an oil stain ruined the floor.
Inching forward, something inside told me to pick up a bottle of the cleaner, to untwist the cap, to break the seal.
My stomach was twisted in painful knots as I raised the jug up toward my nose to take a sniff.
I knew.
I knew before I even took a breath.
But then I took that breath.
Because I had to know-know, not just know in my gut.
I was never going to be able to accept it as true if I didn't breathe it in.
"No," I hissed as the truth of it crashed through my system, making my muscles go slack, the jug falling from my hand, splattering all across the floor in slow motion as I tried to wrap my head around it.
It was him.
It was Finn.
The serial killer I'd been tracking for so long.
It had been Finn all along.
Finn.
My Finn.
He had a lifetime supply of the impossible-to-find chemical cleaner I'd sniffed at all those crime scenes.
He was obsessed with getting every square inch of a place clean.