Page 46

12
CONTINUITY
Ijerk awake, my racing heart on fire, a silent scream locked in my throat. Two nightmares in one night is a record even for me. The first one is now chillingly familiar—the sight of Ridge’s face when I shot him through the chest and watched the life leave his eyes as he dropped dead in Clayton’s office.
The second one is new. It’s the kind of dream I hate. The one that starts with joy and the blindingly effervescent promise of happily-ever-after, and ends with you poised on the edge of some craggy ravine, knowing in your bones you’re about to fall to your death.
It’s clear that the ghosts of future past and present don’t intend to leave me alone tonight, so I drag my fingers through my hair, resign myself to insomnia and slide out of bed.
The moment I rock up to a standstill, I’m hit with another bout of overwhelming disbelief.
The room I’m standing in is bigger than the great room Fionnella’s team uses in the Midtown apartment. In fact, it takes up three quarters of the whole floor of the loft. According to Fionnella, this is the smallest loft in the complex where she delivered me after my breakdown six short hours ago. Despite having lived in a mansion of The Villa’s proportions, I still find it difficult to wrap my mind around this place…this space…being all mine, at least for the next few weeks.
Provided Clayton doesn’t find me first.
The under floor heating warms my feet as I wander around the bedroom.
True to his word, Q has come through in helping me.
The Hell’s Kitchen property is fully furnished, centrally heated, and more importantly, stocked to the gills with food, wine and delicacies, some of which I’ve never heard of, never mind tasted.
I walk across the mezzanine floor to the railing that overlooks the cavernous space below. Contemporary furniture and an extensive entertainment center divide the living room from the dining area, with expensive-looking potted plants interspersed with paintings and eclectic pieces of art. The kitchen is a gourmand’s dream, and I get the feeling I won’t be brave enough to touch half of the gadgets in there.
After Fionnella’s departure, I left a few lights on to brighten the darker corners. I’m not afraid of the dark, but I have more than enough to be jumpy about. I’d rather not add shadows in dark corners to the list of things to be concerned about.
Leaving the bedroom, I make my way slowly down the stairs, then just stand in the middle of the living room and stare around me.
Who is this guy?
Q…
Funny, the more I think about the name I’ve coined for him, the more it suits the stranger behind the wall. Except he won’t be a stranger for much longer.
I realize I’m not dreading meeting him as much as I thought. Whether it’s because my mind has exhausted itself on the possibilities of what he could be, or whether his treatment of me so far has been decidedly less monster-like than what I’ve been used to in the past, I’m not sure.
Either way, I know deep down that no matter what I’m feeling right now, dropping my guard around him, at any time, is dangerous. And yet, I’m standing in the middle of a living room, less afraid than I was a few short hours ago.
And once again getting…hopeful.
I squash the feeling, and cross over to the double-wide fridge. I want to squeal with delight at being confronted with so much delicious food but I resist the need to gorge on a little bit of everything, and take out the ingredients to make a grilled cheese sandwich. I spotted a sandwich press earlier, and five minutes later am sitting cross-legged on the sofa with my sandwich in my lap.
I take a groan-worthy bite and reach for the TV control just as a beep emits from a sleek black gadget on the coffee table. There’s a blinking green light on one end. Cautioning myself not to freak out, I pick it up. Beneath the light is a command that reads TALK/ON.
With my half-eaten mouthful of grilled cheese fast congealing in my mouth, I remain motionless, and will myself not to panic. The light flashes off after a minute. Just when my heart rate is beginning to slow, and I’ve almost convinced myself that this is nothing sinister, the light comes on again.
I rationalize why it can’t be the worst-case scenario. For one thing, Clayton isn’t the type of man to toy with his prey once it is within his cross hairs. If he knew where I was, I would already be in his clutches. Therefore the only logical, please God, conclusion is that this is something else.
I push the button. The light stops flashing but stays on green.
First, I hear him exhale. My head jerks up as the sound filters through the room.
“Lucky.”
I drop the gadget. “Q?” I’m getting used to the smooth automation of his voice. Whatever tech he’s using must be top of the line, because he sounds less robotic and more human each time we speak.
“Yes.”
I look around, spot the discreet speakers tucked into various corners of the living room.