Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 133182 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133182 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
It’s a picture of me in my bed, sleeping.
There’s a blueish-green tint to the photo, as if it was taken with night vision or something like that. In the picture I’m sprawled on my stomach with the covers twisted around my legs and my sleeping shorts riding up my thighs.
And I have absolutely no clue how someone could have taken the picture. My bedroom is on the second floor of our house.
Were they in the room with me?
My heart leaps at the thought and I examine the photo more closely, searching for an idea of the Peeping Tom’s location.
They could have been in the room with me, but from the angle, it looks more like it was taken outside.
Shaking my head, I set that picture off to the side and move on.
The next picture turns out to be another one of me sleeping. This time my arm is thrown across my face, the covers have been kicked to the floor, and the t-shirt I was sleeping in is pulled up, exposing my panties.
The ball of dread tightens so hard I’m afraid I’m going to be sick.
Again, from the angle, it looks as if the picture was taken through my window.
But how… Why…
Was someone stationed in a neighboring house, spying on me all this time?
I flip through picture after dark picture of me sleeping until I reach the back of the stack and hit even more creepy shit.
Pictures of me at the pool, at the beach, and laying out, tanning in a bikini.
“Fuck!” I shout and toss the stack away.
Why does James have these pictures of me?
And why does he have them bound together and buried deep in the box like a dirty secret?
Not wanting to accept the most logical answer, I grab the fabric that slid out of the box and slide it through my hands.
It’s a long, plain black strip. There’s no decoration or embroidery. There’s only two wrinkled, indented spots near each end.
Like the strip of fabric was tied together at one point…
With a cry, I throw the cloth as if it burned me and scramble backward to get away from it.
My heart thumps painfully against my ribs as I stare in horror at the gag that was used to silence me. The very gag James removed and tossed away…
He kept it.
Oh god, he kept it.
Why would he keep it?
Why?
The question loops through my head as I try to make sense of it all.
And the only way to make sense of it is to accept that he’s sick.
He’s a sick, sick man.
Spying on me. Taking pictures of me without me knowing. Keeping the small things I’ve lost.
He’s sick, and I’m trapped in this house with him.
Oh god.
My brain on a total roll now, it reminds me of all the weird crap he’s said and done over the past couple days.
Weird shit he’s been saying and doing from the very beginning.
Like wanting to take me to his house when I said I wanted to go home, or refusing to leave my room when I wanted to take a shower.
Hovering around me and insisting he’s going to keep me safe.
Fighting with me and making me eat.
Telling Trent I’m his woman.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuckity fuck.
I’m so stupid. So fucking stupid.
I dismissed it all because I seriously thought he was after something else. The thought that he was after me didn’t once cross my mind.
How could it?
The bastard pushed me away. He pushed me away.
He even treated me like shit at Beth’s…
“This doesn’t make any sense!” I hiss as I stare at all the stuff laid out before me.
It’s so freaking nonsensical and ridiculous, I still want to doubt it.
I’m simply being self-centered and suffering from main character syndrome, I tell myself.
I’m reading way too much into this.
Seeing what I want to see.
But the proof is literally spread out before me.
Proof of an unhealthy… obsession.
Burying my face in my hands, I try to calm my breathing and think.
Think. Think. I’ve got to think.
What am I going to do about this?
I’ve already slept with him like a dumbass and he has me locked in this house with no way out.
He never said how long he’d be gone and he could come back at any second…
Shit.
If he finds out I’ve found this, who knows how he’ll react.
People tend to get a little crazy when their secrets are discovered.
And he’s already crazy as it is.
What if he ends up killing me and using my dead body as a sex puppet?
Deciding my best course of action is to pretend I never found this, I get to work scooping everything back into the box. If I’m lucky, he won’t feel a need to dig through it again anytime soon because it’s not going back in the same way it came out.
Once I’m done, I quickly get to my feet and push my way out of the closet.