Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
My bag is overfull of junk mostly, and as I rummage, I notice the driver take a left where he should take a right.
“You should go right there. It’s faster. Just take the next turn. The roads connect,” I say.
He glances into the rear-view mirror and it’s the same man, I’m sure, but he doesn’t give any indication he’s even heard me. Well, I guess he gives one. A divider tinted a smokey black begins to go up from a pocket behind the front seats.
I watch it, confused, my mind slow to catch up as my body begins to pump blood faster, sending adrenaline through my veins, sounding an alarm I’m too slow to hear.
Danger.
Second time tonight I feel that word in my bones.
“What are you doing?” My arm shoots out, fingers curling around the glass to stop it rising. It’s almost to the roof of the car and it doesn’t stop neither does the man answer. I pull my fingers back, grabbing for the door handle, pulling and pulling, knowing it will be locked. Some stupid part of my brain that hasn’t quite caught up tries to tell me it’s just because we’re in Drive. The locks always engage. It’s a safety feature.
“Shit.” I dump my bag out on the seat, my hands shaking hard. Half its contents spill onto the floor. My wallet, lipstick, powder, pens, gum, a half-eaten granola bar. Shit. The driver takes a turn and I look out the window but recognize nothing. Nothing except the lights of the city fading as we drive out onto quieter roads. Where houses are bigger. Where twelve-foot stone walls with tall iron gates cut them off from the rest of the world.
Where is it? Where the fuck is my phone?
I undo my seatbelt, listen to the ding ding ding alerting the driver as I drop down to the floor of the Rolls Royce to search for my phone. It’s not here. It’s gone. But who would I call anyway? Who could I call?
I climb back up to my seat, gather up my things and watch as we drive farther and farther away from any lights. I shiver not from cold but fear, loading my things back into my purse like that matters. Like anything matters. He’s going to kill me. Ezekiel St. James is going to murder me. It’s not like it’s his first time. He’s done it before. And that was his own father.
The car finally slows as we approach the open gates of a house set so far back from the road, I can just make out the light in a distant window. One light in a house that is so big, it can swallow up the apartment building I live in three times over and have room for dessert.
From what I can see, the grounds are meticulously maintained and vast and I don’t need to glance back to know that the gates behind me have sealed shut.
I fucked up this time. Well and truly fucked up.
The car comes to a stop at the stairs that lead to the front doors of the house. House. No, not a house. It’s a fucking estate. The driver kills the engine, climbs out and he opens my door. Just opens it and stands there like he had earlier. Still formal in his uniform although the black leather gloves he’s wearing give off a menacing vibe now.
“Miss,” he says when I don’t move.
I’m going to be sick again. I would be if there was anything left in my stomach. I think about the pot in the sink of my shitty apartment. The lone fork.
“Wh…” I clear my throat because I’m struggling to form words. “Where am I?”
“Miss.” He gestures for me to climb out.
I do. Because what else am I going to do? I’m sure he’d have no qualms about dragging me out of the vehicle and into that house.
But if Ezekiel St. James was going to kill me or have me killed, he wouldn’t bring me to his house. DNA. He’d be better off having me run down when I cross a street or something. It’d be easier and less mess for him to clean up. He needs something from me, at least before he kills me.
That’s what I tell myself as I walk in the direction the chauffeur points and enter the vast, cold house. From the little bit of light in the hallway, I see all the furniture is covered with dust cloths. Maybe he had that done since he’s living in Amsterdam now. If this is his house, it would sit empty I guess while he’s away. What do people as rich as Ezekiel St. James do when they go away? It’s not like he’s going to list it on Airbnb or something.
I keep glancing behind me at the driver who still has the collar of his coat turned up, his hat drawn down low on his forehead, those gloves on his big hands.