Page 33 of Willing Prey

TWENTY-EIGHT

Shane

Weaving in and out of traffic, I can’t get home from work fast enough. All day, I’ve been next to useless, my thoughts consumed by the conversation I’m going to have tonight with Claire.

Watching her sleep this morning, I wished I could go back to last night and tell her how I feel.

I considered waking her up to talk before I went to work, but she looked so right cuddled beneath my duvet I couldn’t bother her.

So a sticky note on the bathroom mirror it was.

Notes are nice, romantic, even. Better than rousing her before dawn needlessly.

Or at least that’s what I’m telling myself.

The speedometer ticks higher, and for the millionth time, I’m wishing I’d never hired her, that I’d walked up and asked her out for dinner instead of approaching her with a business arrangement.

Then I wouldn’t be worried about her thinking I’m pretending to like her to hunt her for free.

I wouldn’t worry if she secretly resents me for how insensitive the contract is.

I wouldn’t wonder if she feels the same way I do. I’d know.

If she turns down the relationship, fine.

But I will propose another thirty days and then another after that.

Buy myself time to win her over, because I will win her over.

I don’t want her with an expiration date.

Ironically, when I hired her, the expiration date was the appeal.

But when I thought this was a brilliant idea, I never thought she’d be so… Claire.

My excitement fades when I pull into the drive.

For the first time in thirty days, there’s no green pickup sitting crooked in front of the house.

I know she sometimes runs errands while I’m at work, but she’s always here when I get home.

Of course, that was when the contract was in effect.

It makes sense that she wouldn’t accommodate my schedule now.

The house feels too still. “Gretchen?” I call. Gretchen’s here for another week, and there’s a chance Claire mentioned where she was going. Texting Claire within minutes of getting home seems needy.

“Upstairs,” she responds.

I find her in Claire’s room. A chill creeps over me. There’s nothing there. No stack of paperbacks on the nightstand, no sneakers beside the armchair. Gretchen’s remaking the bed with linens that look freshly laundered. The can of bear spray I bought Claire stands alone on the dresser.

“Do you know where Claire is?” I’m too flustered for a proper greeting.

Gretchen straightens. “I would assume at home, why?” The disappointed look she gives me catches me off guard.

“Where are her things?” I ask, even though the realization of what’s happened is sinking in. Still, I don’t want to believe it.

Maybe she moved them into my room.

It’s a fanciful wish. Claire wouldn’t move her things in without being asked. The memory of her uncertainty about whether I wanted her to sleep in my room last night smacks me harder than I spanked her.

“She took them with her.”

I blink at Gretchen, blankly repeating what I’m slowly coming to accept. “She left?”

“Why wouldn’t she? Her contract was up.” Gretchen looks past me.

Margot’s voice comes from the doorway. “Why didn’t you ask her to work another thirty days?”

I spin to face her. “Because I want to date her.” It’s a half-truth. I want to do so much more than date her, but I’m not about to tell Margot before I tell Claire.

Margot lets out a bitter chuckle. She looks as irritated with me as Gretchen.

“Does Claire know that?” Margot asks, an edge on her words. “Because she looked miserable when she left this morning. I wanted to talk to her, but I was showing Sophia around, and Claire couldn’t get out of here fast enough.”

Sophia?

Margot must see the confusion on my face. “My sister? You said she could stay in the other guest room for two days while her apartment gets painted.”

I nod. Margot could move her whole family in, and I wouldn’t blink. All I can think about is Claire.

“Claire was gone before I came in,” Gretchen adds.

“I didn’t think she would leave without talking to me.”

Margot jumps back in. “Did you ask her to wait before you left this morning?”

“I didn’t want to wake her. But I left a note.”

“A note?” Margot’s thoughtful. “Like a love note on the pillow?”

Heat creeps beneath my collar. “Not quite a love note, and I thought she might miss it on the pillow. I put it on the bathroom mirror.”

Behind me, Gretchen makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a smothered laugh.

I turn to see her situating the pillows against the pine headboard. “Notes are romantic.”

“Conversations are more romantic,” she quips. “And it depends on the note. Don’t take this wrong, sugar, but I could see you leaving we need to talk on a sticky note like you’re going to give her a performance evaluation.”

“It wasn’t that bad.” Cracking on the last word, my strangled voice damns me.

“You didn’t.” Margot moves from the doorway to lean against the dresser, arms crossed. “What did the note say?”

Gretchen perches on the edge of the freshly made bed, arching an eyebrow when I look her way.

“It was nice—sweet, even,” I protest. “It said, Will you wait for me to get home ”—I clear my suddenly dry throat—“ so we can talk? ”

“Eh, that’s rough, I’d leave too.” Gretchen shakes her head, patting my shoulder as she moves past me to the door. “God, you remind me of Stephen sometimes. Had to pry every single warm fuzzy out of that man with a crowbar.”

Stephen was Gretchen’s third husband, and the comparison isn’t complimentary. I don’t get to defend myself. Margot’s attention is fully on me. “So, if you really want to date her why haven’t you told her?”

Dragging a hand through my hair, I fumble for my phone. “I’ve been obsessing over how to bring it up because it’s complicated, going from this”—I gesture wildly—“to a relationship. I don’t want her to think I’m working the relationship angle to sleep with her for free.”

Margot snorts as if the idea is absurd. “I think you’re safe there. But I know you hurt her feelings. Seriously, she ran out of here.”

“I’ll fix it.” I’m already scrolling to her number.

Margot nods. “Good, you need to.” She starts to go, then stops. “You talk for a living. Use your words. Don’t just assume she knows how you feel.”

With that, she’s gone. As I listen to the phone ring, I feel an inch tall. Claire’s hurting because I put off talking to her. When the call goes to voicemail, I hang up. I need to talk to her in person anyway. I’ll make this right.

· · ·

When Claire doesn’t answer my calls, I change out of my work clothes and pull her address from the contract.

I’m going to her apartment. A bold, borderline inappropriate move.

Necessary, though. I went into my bathroom and saw the washcloth and towel I set out for her were still folded and untouched.

She may not have seen the note at all. And while Gretchen and Margot weren’t impressed, I think Claire would have stayed if she’d seen it.

Or at least texted me to tell me why she wasn’t if the note offended her.

At her apartment complex, my parking job is half-assed at best, but I don’t correct it.

Claire lives on the third floor, and I take the stairs two at a time.

Reaching her door, I pause just long enough to compose myself.

If her best friend–slash-roommate answers, I don’t want her first impression of me to be that I’m unhinged.

Even though I feel unhinged right now, one single purpose swirling through my mind.

Find Claire.

Fix it.

Margot’s words fill my mind, how upset she said Claire looked when she left. That’s my fault. I hurt Claire because I couldn’t put my own discomfort aside long enough to admit how I feel about her. She thinks I let the contract run out, and we’re done.

Here we go.

I straighten my shirt and knock on the door.

There’s a peephole, and I try to stand far enough back that Claire or Sydney can see me.

Tilting my head, I listen for the sound of movement.

Nothing. After a beat, I knock again. Same result.

Pulling out my phone, I try calling her again, wondering at what point effort turns into obsession. The call goes to voicemail.

Fuck.

I saw how easily Claire could ignore Keith. Am I getting the same treatment? Am I in her phone as Asshole Who Didn’t Say Goodbye ? Or worse, Asshole Who Doesn’t Do Aftercare ?

Though, technically, I did run the bath when I didn’t realize it was aftercare. Then last night I scrubbed her within an inch of her life and gave her a head massage while I washed her hair. Claire’s very fair, so I think she’d give me credit for that.

Her truck.

Back down the stairs I go. It’s dusk now, but there’s enough light for me to easily see her truck isn’t parked anywhere near this building. In my hurry I didn’t even notice.

Okay.

She’s not home.

Heading to my SUV, I repark properly inside the lines, kill the engine, and wait.

And wait.

And wait even longer.

At eight o’clock I assume she must be out with friends. She’s off for the summer, after all.

At nine I start to worry, and by ten I feel ill at the thought of where she might be.

Keith.

Getting his address will be easy. I start my SUV, ready to head to the firm and find it. Metal vibrates against plastic, the sound irritating before I realize it’s my phone and snatch it from the cupholder.

Please be Claire.

Adding a stab of guilt to my annoyance, the notification on my screen is from the app connected to Claire’s smartwatch. A new software update will install automatically at midnight. Moving to drop the phone back in the cupholder, I pause an instant before I let go.

Wait.

The GPS.

Swiping the app open, I click Claire’s name and update location .

The blue dot I’m ready to chase across the country pops onto the screen.

My jaw unclenches. Slightly. Keith lives somewhere downtown, and Claire’s far from Newbound.

Zooming in, I see her dot is in the middle of the Lake Helen Trail System.

A Google search shows a map with numerous hike-in campsites.

The sites are remote, and there’s a PSA about safe backwoods camping practices at the bottom of the page.

She better have taken Sydney with her.

Starting my SUV, I pull out of the complex far too fast.