by Rebel Farris
I grunted at that and set the bucket and mop down. Never thought I’d see the day I grew nostalgic for any part of my life. Pulling the feather duster from the bucket, I set about working. From the top down, that was the best way to clean a room as I’d learned at a long-ago cleaning job.
There was a stool that sat in the corner near the end of the hall next to a window. I grabbed it and pulled it away from the wall, so it was a comfortable distance from the corner. Stepping up, I knocked down the cobwebs and dust that gathered there. I almost wished that opening the window was an option as the dust kicked up, making me sneeze. But it was cold outside, and there were no heaters upstairs.
Surprisingly, it wasn’t all that chilly, since the fire Xander had started before I woke seemed to be doing a great job of keeping the house well-heated. It wasn’t long before I finished dusting the hall, bathroom, and guest bedroom.
The only place left was behind a closed door.
I stood there, staring at it, debating on whether I should leave it alone. Xander had never told me to stay out of it. But he also never showed me what was in there, like he’d done with the rest of the house. I walked up to the door and laid my hand on the cold wrought-iron knob.
That was perhaps the single most peculiar thing about this house. Everything in there was normal, run-of-the-mill farmhouse. Nothing fancy, just utilitarian or homemade. Those handles, though, seemed like something out of a Gothic mansion. They were the kind that required one of those ornate skeleton keys. I’d never seen anything like them in real life. I turned the knob, or tried to at least, but it was locked.
I bent at the knees and looked through the keyhole. I could see straight through into the room. It was an office. I could feel the crease between my brows deepen with my confusion. Why would someone keep, or even have, an office that they never used? He wasn’t a businessman. Just a foreign mechanic who’d retired in America.
Though that was a lot of assumption on my part, because I’d never asked, and he’d never volunteered any information about his past. I hated it, but the more I thought about it, the more my curiosity grew. Coupled with the strange wire I found in the pantry the previous day, my urge to poke around grew stronger.
The only problem was, I didn’t have a key and I knew nothing about picking locks. Breaking and entering was not in my bag of tricks. I sighed and stood up, going back to work.
It was about an hour later, after I’d finished dusting and polishing all the furniture. I pulled the bedding off, taking it down to wash, when I saw it. Sitting on the inside of the door to the guest room, a key head poked out beneath the doorknob. Then I remembered that it had been there from the first night. He showed it to me and explained that the door would lock from the inside.
It was smart. If I were looking for a hidden key, somewhere that obvious would be last on my list of places to look. But it wasn’t that obvious either, because most of the time, that door sat open, the handle facing the wall. The only reason it wasn’t open now was because I was cleaning behind it a few minutes earlier.
I balled the bedding up in my hands and transferred it under one arm. I reached out with the other and pulled the key out of the door. It was heavier than I expected it to be. Made of solid, ornately carved wrought iron, it was a beautiful piece. But it still felt so out of place. I put it back into the keyhole and twisted it. Two large bolts slid out of the door. That was a pretty secure lock for an interior door.
My mind raced with thoughts as my gaze tracked along the edge of the door. Three black strap hinges connected the door to the interior wall. It would be impossible to break down from the inside, but much easier from the outside.
That was an odd choice, since most often people locked doors to keep things out. I thought back to my trailer and all the interior doors opened to the inside, but with normal hinges that weren’t decorative. These were the kind found on exterior doors. It did keep the prettier parts in the room. Maybe it was an aesthetic choice? My gaze slid past the door into the hall, and I doubted that was the answer. The door to the other room—the office—had the hinges on the outside. Which made more sense because you’d want people coming into the room to see it.
This whole situation was like a puzzle, and my mind flitted around every possible explanation. I banged my head on the door’s edge. Why the fuck did I care about hinge placement? It was like I was purposely delaying getting in that room. I didn’t know what I wanted. I didn’t think this was me and my relationship hang-ups anymore. There was something off about the whole situation. I needed to know what was in that room.
I pressed my fingertips into my forehead, trying to think of the best way to handle this. I couldn’t go snooping around without thought. If it was nothing but an ordinary office, and if I got caught, it would hurt him that I didn’t trust him. If it was something more, this could be dangerous. I didn’t really know Xander, and given the way we’d met, I still had good enough reasons to consider it. I wasn’t being crazy or looking for excuses to run away.
I put the key back in place, then left the door open to conceal it. I’d have to come back later, when I knew the coast was clear. My feet nearly tripped over themselves in my rush down to put on the wash. Then, moving faster than I ever had in my life, I made sure the cleaning was mostly done upstairs. I knew I’d be able to hear if he came into the house, but I needed it to look like I’d spent the day up here cleaning, not snooping.
I’d almost finished; the only thing left was scrubbing out the bathtub and making the bed. The bedding was in the dryer and would be done soon. I checked the time and it was almost noon. I made my way down, fixed Xander some food for lunch, and took it out to him.
His head turned in my direction as I approached, though a welding mask hid his features. He flipped up the mask and smiled. I drooled slightly at the sight of him. He was shirtless and sweaty, wearing that heavy black apron as he used his welding torch. He was patching a hole in a radiator. I didn’t know much about cars, but I knew that the radiator and carburetor were two separate things. I tried to think back to what he’d said when he’d talked about the repairs, but I only remembered tuning him out and nodding.
He stepped around the mess of car parts between us and took the plate and cup from my hands, setting it on the counter. His fingers curled around the back of my neck, his thumb pressing at the bottom of my chin to tilt my head back. I thought he was going to kiss me, but his mouth only hovered there, inches from mine.
“Will it ever stop?” His focus bounced back and forth as he searched my eyes like they held answers. “This ache for you that intensifies every time I see you, but never fully goes away.”
I opened my mouth to answer. What I was going to say, I don’t know. All thoughts ceased in a blink as he closed the distance between us. I kept waiting for the moment where the next kiss wouldn’t compare to the last, but it never happened. Each time was better, every touch more intense. He swept away every thought, shut down every brain function aside from the ones that focused on him, in that moment. My bones liquefied, and I started to slip. He caught my elbow to steady me, but the kiss ended at that. He stepped away.
“I don’t want to soil you further.” He nodded toward my arm.
I looked down to find a black handprint on the sleeve of the sweater I was wearing. That was going to be a bitch to get out. He was smiling, and my breath stalled in my lungs. Even dirty and sweaty, he was mesmerizing.
“You have a little here too.” He pointed to the underside of his chin and nodded in my direction. I wiped at it, and my hand came back with black smudges.
“I guess now my outsides match the inside of my brain, after being kissed like that.” I gave him a saucy look and laughed.
His eyes darkened. “Later, zvonová sklenice.”
“You’ve called me that before. What does it mean?”
He smirked. “I believe you call it a bell jar, some call it a cloche. It is what you bring to mind.” He shrugged like he was shaking off any judgment of t
he name. “You build a wall between yourself and the rest of the world, but it is transparent. Every mood, every emotion, you wear on your shoulder, for all to see.”
My mouth opened and closed as I struggled with a response to that. I couldn’t think of anything. My lips pressed together as I jutted my chin out. “I see.” I turned away. That’s what he thought of me—a transparent, silly girl with issues. Fuck him.
“It is not a bad thing. It draws me to you, fascinates me. Can you not see that?”
Sure. I’ve a feeling he’s more drawn to my tits and ass. I started for the door.
“Your legs are best.”
I gasped and spun to face him. Did I say that out loud? Or is he a freaky mind reader? Probably the latter. I was going to throw a snotty retort at him, but his stare was hungry, lustful. I froze. His eyes held laughter in the way they scrunched at the corners. Like he said it to get a rise, to make me stop, and I gave him exactly what he wanted. I huffed and crossed my arms over my chest. I wasn’t transparent. I had secrets. Fuck him.
“I’ll be inside,” I grumbled. “I gotta finish cleaning upstairs.”
He nodded and grinned. “It was a joke, Rosie. I love all your parts best.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I turned and finished the walk to the door. “Keep it up and you’ll miss all my parts.”
“As if you could stay away from my parts,” he called out just before the door shut behind me.
A reluctant smile crept across my face before I remembered my mission. My body stiffened as I was jolted back to reality. It went well; I’d successfully distracted him. He shouldn’t be back inside the house for at least a few hours, so I’d have time to see what he was hiding in his secret office. I turned back one last time before I went inside. The light of his welding torch lit up the window. He’d gone back to work, not suspicious at all. Take that for transparency.
I pulled off my boots as soon as I entered the house, and practically skidded across the linoleum floor in my socks, rushing to grab the bedding from the dryer. I ran up the stairs as fast as my feet would take me and made the bed. I rehung the curtains that I’d also washed. They were dusty as all get-out. As soon as that was done, I pulled the curtains shut and bolted for the key.
Pausing in front of the office door, I took a deep breath and held it, listening for any sounds from Xander. I could hear the muffled hammering of metal from the garage and knew he hadn’t followed me. I let the breath out in a rush and stuck the key in the door. It turned with a click and the door groaned open, like it had been waiting for someone to release it. I guessed this room was rarely used.
Dust motes floated in the air, lit up by the light streaming in from the only window. The air was stale from lack of circulation, but overall, the room was clean. Cleaner than the guest bedroom had been. Like he’d only recently abandoned its use.
There were taped-up cardboard boxes stacked against every wall, and a large writing desk sat in the middle of the room. The desk chair sat opposite the window, like he liked to look outside while he worked. Though I’d no clue what kind of work he did in there. The only thing I’d seen him do is work on a truck and take care of chickens.
One side of the desk had two square-front drawers that were the size of a small filing cabinet. The other side had several smaller drawers, for supplies I supposed. There were no pictures in the space. In fact, now that I thought about it, there were no pictures in the entire house, aside from a few paintings that were all different styles. No people. I hadn’t thought much of it because I didn’t have a lot of pictures on display either. Just the Ansel Adams print and a picture of me with a couple of friends in my bedroom. And that picture was another gift. I’d have nothing if it weren’t for people forcing me to own them. But Xander’s house was more decorated and thoughtful than my bare-bones space.
I stepped farther into the room. I couldn’t decide where to look first. If I were a clue to reveal something about a very secretive man, where would I be? That didn’t help either. I sighed and walked over to the desk and pulled out the chair. It was disappointing. Everything was so clean and neat, I was scared to touch it and leave behind evidence that I’d been there.
I spun around in the chair, when it hit me. The wire. The wire from the pantry led to something. I got down on my hands and knees and leaned closer to the floor. It would come out somewhere around the center of the room. Bingo. Near the side of the desk with the filing cabinet drawers, the wire snaked out of the floor and into the bottom of the desk.
I stood up and sat back in the chair, staring at the drawer. Please open. I said a silent prayer as my hand hovered near the handle. I’d no way to open those boxes, so if the answers weren’t in this desk, I wasn’t getting any. The fact that so much hinged on it made me hesitate. I pulled on the handle, and the drawer glided open with ease. My heartbeat pounded in my ear with the sight before me—a phone.
Captive
A fucking phone. He’s had another phone this whole time and never offered it up. Fuck. I didn’t want to believe that I’d find something damning. But this was it, because if the phone worked, then he’d lied. It was a white phone, an older model that didn’t have buttons or a dial. The kind you needed to speak to a switchboard operator to use. My hand shook as I reached out and grabbed it. I pulled it up to my ear, and it was there, plain as day—a dial tone. It went quiet, then all of a sudden there were a series of clicks. I’d no idea what was happening until a woman’s voice, speaking in a foreign language, came over the line.
I think it was Czech, but I couldn’t be sure. I’d only ever heard Xander say a few words in his native language. I slammed the phone back down on the receiver. What to do? I opened the other drawer, and there was a file—a single file folder, with some sort of form printed on the front. It wasn’t helpful; everything was written in what I assume was Czech. I pulled it out and set it on the desktop.
My stomach felt as if I’d swallowed a bag of rocks. I closed my eyes and let my fingers find the edge of the folder. When I opened my eyes, what I saw took my breath away. And it wasn’t breathtaking in the good way. Images flashed through my mind. Pale, waxy skin, a mouth twisted open, flies crawling in and out of the gaping, slack cavity. In front of me sat a picture of him. Though in the picture, he was very much alive. I flipped through the pages, but all were in Czech. It looked like a dossier from a spy movie, but I’d no clue. Until I found the last page, I didn’t know what it meant. The last page was written in English.
We have located the man that you are looking for. He can be found in a small farm in a rural area in central Texas.
We have surveilled the residence, and he seems to live there alone. One phone line and a truck are his only connections to the outside world. You should be able to get to him and extract the information you need quietly.
Please be advised that this communication in no way grants you any permissions. You will not have diplomatic immunity and will be subject to all the rules and regulations of the United States of America and the State of Texas, as well as any local or county laws.
Please find the attached map pinpointing the location of your target. Best of luck.
It wasn’t signed by anyone. It wasn’t on letterhead, though the paper quality was above average. I’d no clue what any of it meant. Did it mean that someone was after Xander? Was this really Xander’s house, or did the place belong to the dead man? I had more questions than answers.
The paper mentioned a map, but that was the last page. I didn’t see a map anywhere in the file. I stuck the paper back in place and straightened the pages before I closed it. It was the only thing in the drawer, so I replaced it and shut it. I opened the three smaller drawers on the left side of the desk. There wasn’t much, just a couple of odd pens and office supplies. But in the bottom drawer there was a map.
It was just your standard tourist map of Texas. Nothing special or fancy, but as I unfolded it, I realized it was different. Someone had printed a terrain map over the map of roads and highwa
ys. I ignored all the amoeba-shaped lines and found my hometown; then I ran my finger along the roads that I took to get here. Along the path, there was a red dot, just off the road. It had to be this house.
So why would Xander have a letter written from an anonymous source about surveillance and location of this house? There was really only one explanation. He was the killer, and this was a dead man’s house. Tears welled in my eyes, and I folded the map up quickly and placed it back in the drawer the way I found it.
I bit down on my fist to muffle the sob that’d built up in my chest. I was shredded. Torn. I’d no idea how to feel—vindicated that I was right, devastated that he'd lied, scared, confused… I was sleeping with a killer. Oh, God.
I slipped out of the office, locking the door behind me and replacing the key in its spot in the guest-room door. I sat down in the rocking chair and stared out the window.
I was shocked out of my stupor with a jolt as the screen door cracked off the doorframe, denoting Xander’s arrival back at the house. Shit. I couldn’t let him find me like this—and he would find me. I wiped the tears from my cheeks and tiptoed to the bathroom. The sponge and spray bottle I’d filled with a mixture of bleach and water sat on the counter. My gaze caught on my reflection, and I froze.
In that moment, I looked like her—like my mama. All those things I saw in her when it came to love and life choices, they were there. Things I resented about her, things I loathed and wanted no part of. That probably should’ve scared me more than it did. But the first thought was that I looked older and little more unhinged than usual. There was a wildness in my eyes that intrigued me, more than the fear that I was losing myself or in any danger. Which was stupid.
I’d seen the marks on that man’s body. He wasn’t just killed and dumped in the woods. It wasn’t some methodical kill. He was tortured. It was a level of twisted and sick beyond my comprehension. I couldn’t fathom what would motivate anyone to do that to another human being. I didn’t think there was a logical explanation that would excuse it. But every time my mind tried to connect that to Xander, I tacitly rejected it.
