Hidden (Nicole Jones #1)(12)

I wait for the phone to ring, for movement outside. I stand statue-like, my muscles frozen, the fear replacing the anger that had replaced the fear. I have not had so many quick emotions one after the other in a long time. I am not sure my body can handle it. I begin to shake with the realization of what I’ve just done. I sink down to the floor, my head against my knees, and tears slip down my cheeks. I don’t know how long I stay like this, waiting for something but unsure of what.

After an hour, I unfold my legs and stand. My feet are partially asleep, and pins and needles prick them as I head to the bathroom. I turn the hot water on, making sure to lock both the window and the door, even though I know locks won’t keep him out if he wants to come in, before stepping under the stream. The heat rushes through me, scalding me, but I barely notice.

The big towel covers me completely, and I tiptoe into the bedroom, pulling on my clothes while trying not to expose my bare skin. I should get mini-blinds, something I can pull shut and no one can see through.

My old, worn jeans are comfortable, the soft T-shirt smooth against my skin. I am feeling more like myself again, more like Nicole. I wear thick wool socks as I venture to the mudroom and look out the window. The box is out there, upside down and on its side, where it landed when I threw it. Curiosity tickles my brain, and I try to think logically. If it did not blow up when I threw it, perhaps there isn’t anything like a bomb inside. Maybe he had just left me a present – something he found on the island and wanted me to have.

I know I am rationalizing, but I’ve begun to really want to know what’s in that box. I open the door slowly and put my foot out on the step. The chill of the stone seeps up through my sock, but I ignore it as I take another step. I am soon standing in the yard, the dew on the grass saturating my feet. I cannot feel it. My eyes are glued to the box.

I take a deep breath and don’t let myself think. In one movement, I pick up the box and run back inside, the door slamming behind me.

I grab a sharp knife out of the drawer and slice through the duct tape, pulling up the flaps of the box.

There is a lot of paper inside – packing paper – and something that’s Styrofoam. I have to hold the box just-so and let it slide out.

It’s a laptop computer.





SEVEN


I run my hand across its smooth surface, feeling its skin, hypnotized by its pureness. I lift the lid to expose the pristine keyboard, the dark screen. My fingers dance across the letters, the numbers. They bounce slightly under my touch, as if cringing. Like they know.

I rummage around in the box and find a power cord. There is no manual. I can’t stop touching it. I cannot help myself.

I am sitting at the table, staring at the blank screen, when he comes in. He doesn’t knock; he doesn’t ring the bell. I hear the door creak open, then slam. Heavy footsteps in the mudroom.

‘What do you think?’ he asks from behind me, his breath tickling the back of my neck.

I do not turn around. ‘It’s beautiful,’ I say.

‘Turn it on.’

‘No.’

He laughs, comes around the side of the table and sits across from me, the laptop between us. ‘It’s not going to bite.’

‘You have no idea.’ I am clutching the power cord in my hand so tightly it’s made an indentation in my palm. I have been struggling with this for an hour. I need a twelve-step program.

‘It’s like riding a bike.’

‘I fell off that bike, remember?’

He leans back in his chair and stares at me. ‘You have to get back on.’

This is what I expected when I first saw him here on the island. When he first told me his name.

‘I’ve got a job for you.’ His voice is low, curling around each word like a snake.

I have not heard those words in a long time, and something moves through me: revulsion followed by a clammy fear, and then the adrenaline of desire sticks in my throat. Not desire for him – the desire to do what he wants, to get that rush again, to feel that power. I force it down, force myself to lift my hand and put the power adapter on the table, close the laptop. I get up and push my chair in.

‘No,’ I say simply, going to the kitchen. I can’t let him see my face. I know he’ll see it there. I pour myself a brandy, my hand shaking slightly, spilling a few drops on the counter.

His hand reaches around me, takes Steve’s glass from last night out of the dish drainer and sets it down next to mine. ‘I’ll take one, too.’

I pour it, and we drink.

‘Good stuff,’ he says, draining his glass.

I nod, trying to ignore his hand that’s settled on my back, his fingers that are gently rubbing my spine. I wriggle away from his touch and back up against the counter.

‘I’m done with all that. Anyway, I haven’t touched a computer in fifteen years.’

‘Excuses, excuses.’

‘I don’t have an Internet connection.’ I am grabbing at straws, but he’s right about making excuses. An Internet connection is as easy as sitting in a coffee shop with wireless. I may not have owned a computer in fifteen years, but I do know about wireless. ‘Even if I did, how do I know it would be secure?’

He leans back in his chair and gives me a long, slow smile. ‘There are ways.’

I know. But I let him tell me anyway. I am leading him on. Despite everything in me that’s saying no, I want to know what the job is.