Chapter Thirteen - Evangeline
I awake confused, sweaty, heart racing, panic ready to overtake me… until I remember how I got here.
Not here the house, but here the bed.
I turn over, looking for cameras. Find them all. Count them up. One, two, three, four, five, six. And for some odd reason it calms me. Just knowing he’s there. Just a little. Just enough to fight back the full-fledged attack that would surely be coming if I hadn’t been led up to this bedroom last night by his note.
God, Evangeline, you’re gonna feel really stupid if that he is a she.
It’s not. I can feel him. His gaze on me, his mind a mess of thoughts just like mine.
It’s his job. He’s not infatuated with you. You’re just desperate for attention. You’re just craving an emotional attachment, so you’re inventing a relationship that isn’t real.
It’s something Lucinda might say to me. Though she never has. I’ve had no contact with people other than her in the past year. Not in any significant way.
I roll my eyes at my own ridiculous assumptions. I’m not infatuated with him either. I just find it comforting that I’m alone, but not. It’s like a halfway point. Somewhere safe but challenging at the same time.
I have a sudden urge to talk to him. Say something mundane like, Good morning. Or, How did you sleep?
Does he sleep?
He must.
That has my heart fluttering. What if I wake up in the middle of the night with an urge to leave so powerful I just walk out of the house? And he misses it because he’s asleep?
Which is downright stupid. I had that urge last night and the problem that prevented me from leaving hasn’t changed. I broke my phone in a fit of panic. There’s no landline in here. No way to contact anyone. I have no idea where I’m at in the city. I’m unsure of where the nearest public phone might be, and I have no clear plan to get myself home.
All those things weren’t enough to walk out last night and they won’t be enough tonight, either. Even if I do wake up in a panic.
I’ll just go to the downstairs powder room if that kind of reaction happens. Just hide away in there until he figures it out and delivers a note with directions on what to do next.
That’s when I see the note on the bedside table.
Not the one from last night. Because that was in my palm when I fell asleep and now it’s somewhere in this massive bed.
A new note.
Which means he was in here.
An unfamiliar flood of heat between my legs sends a quiver through my body.
He was in here. My stranger. With me. Watching.
My heart rate kicks up a notch, but not because of panic.
I hold my breath as I scramble over to the edge of the bed and snatch the note in my hand.
Evangeline.
It’s the same crisp, symmetrical print from last night. I trace a finger over my black-inked name. And that little lower-case e squiggle thing is there too. His mark.
Inside it says, You’re rested, but now you’re hungry. Go downstairs to the kitchen. Make yourself a filling breakfast. Then take a shower and get dressed. I’ll tell you what I want after that.
I look over at the nearest camera and say, “Do I know you?”
There’s no answer. And I didn’t expect one, but talking to the camera feels like… a conversation. And I don’t have many of those. The last one was with Lucinda yesterday on the phone. But I haven’t talked to anyone except Lucinda in a very long time. Not even Dan from Mott’s.
He called me once and left a message. It was about six or seven months ago now. Explaining that he had a lead on the very last recording of Evangeline Rolaine.
Which was ridiculous because I am her, and I have that stupid recording, and I know damn well no one else has one except me. But I called him back anyway just to see what he had to say.
The “lead” fell through. Surprise, surprise.
So that was the last time I talked to someone other than Lucinda in any meaningful way.
Until yesterday when I said hello to my stranger. And now I’ve asked him a question too.
I get up, use the bathroom, put my socks back on because this house is freezing, and then make my way downstairs to the kitchen. I’m secretly hoping for another note when I get there, but find none, and a sad longing washes over me.
Which is crazy. I don’t even know this person. This watcher, this stranger. And there’s no possible way to be attracted to someone from two stupid handwritten notes.
And yet… irrational as it is, that’s how I feel. Attracted.
You’re rested, but now you’re hungry.
I am, I realize. I didn’t eat yesterday. Not at all. I was too wound up to eat breakfast and the afternoon was a hazy nightmare filled with panic attacks and anger.
But I’m starving now. So I open the fridge, not sure what to expect, but find it stocked, just the way Lucinda said.
It’s weird, all of a sudden. To feel… taken care of in this small way. The groceries. The notes. All of it hits me as a collection of very touching gestures.
There’s not a lot of variety of food. Lucinda wants me to run out sooner rather than later, so I know she did this on purpose. There’s fruit, a slab of bacon, half a dozen eggs, some lunchmeat that looks to be turkey or chicken, a tomato, a head of lettuce, and butter.
In the pantry I find nothing but a single loaf of white bread.
Yeah, this is not gonna last more than a few days. I suppose she didn’t want to spend too much money on groceries when I could bail out on day one.
And almost did, I remind myself.
But I’m still here. Thanks to the stranger.
I make bacon, eggs, and toast with butter and scarf it down so fast, I regret not making more.
But I’m eager to see what’s next from my stranger. So I go upstairs and take a shower. I don’t see a camera in the shower, but he’s clever, right? There could be one. So I pretend there is one. I wash myself seductively, soaping up my breasts and rubbing bubbles between my legs until I have to close my eyes.
And then I feel stupid because I’m like ninety-nine percent sure there’s no camera in here, even though I wouldn’t mind if there was.
When I get out, I realize my suitcases are still downstairs.
There’s a brief moment when I consider walking down to get them…naked.
What would he do?
Would he like that?
The heat between my legs and the quiver in my stomach are back.
I’m kinda horny. I might like to masturbate and take care of that.
Instead, I wrap the towel tightly around my body and snap back to my senses. I’ve just been so alone for so long, these small flickers of attention are enough to make me irrational.
He’s probably old, I tell myself. And not my type.
Do I even have a type?
I laugh out loud at that as I make my way over to the double doors, but stop short when I pull them open.
Because my suitcases are already there. At the top of the stairs. Right outside my bedroom door. And there’s a note attached to them.
Evangeline, it says on the outside.
Take off that towel. Find the black panties and bra, the white sweater and the gray pants, and put them on. Then put on your coat and shoes and take a walk outside in the yard.
Don’t forget… I’m watching you.
X
Is that x as in x? Or an x as in hugs and kisses? Like xxoo?
I look up and find every single camera. Look straight into each one.
Your move, Evangeline, that silence seems to say.
So this is a game, is it?
I should be mad. Pissed off even. That Lucinda told me to come here as a place of safety. Somewhere I could be watched anonymously. Get used to the idea of eyeballs on me twenty-four seven. Get past it, over it, move on with my life and never have to think about my watcher again.
This is not about sex, Evangeline.
Sure, Lucinda. Sure it’s not.
But I’m not pissed off at all. I’m not the least bit unhappy about the fact that this is, after all, about sex. It has to be. In fact… I’m thoroughly intrigued. A little turned on. Maybe ready to play his game. Maybe even ready to strategize my own game.