Page 80

Good.

In the kitchen, the refrigerator door squeaks as I pull it open. It’s embarrassingly full, with eggs lined up on the top shelf, a half-gallon of milk, three pitchers of juice—orange, apple, and cranberry. Fresh strawberries and grapes piled in the bin, and a container of pre-cut pineapple. There are Greek and vanilla yogurts in neat rows, slices of cheddar and Swiss, and deli meat tucked into wax paper. A bag of chicken breasts, a box of frozen waffles, and a tub of chocolate-chip cookie dough ice cream fill the freezer drawer. The shelves to the right of the fridge hold a few cans of soup, a box of uncooked spaghetti noodles, and enough snacks to feed a class of hungry kindergartners.

I blame the Daddy thing.

Tonight, a bottle of water and a granola bar will have to do as my meal. I’ll make a proper breakfast tomorrow.

I take my selections over to the small living room. It used to be empty except for a single folding chair and a few rolled-up tarps, so I fixed it up and added a couch, a matching sofa chair, a side table, a wall-mounted TV, and a rug.

Never thought I’d be buying fucking furniture for a captive, but here we are.

I sink onto the couch, bite into the oats and chocolate chips, then pull out my phone again and check in on Kamden.

I watch him for a few seconds, then exit the app, because this is going to become a problem, isn’t it?

I chug the entire bottle of water, throw the empty plastic beside me on the couch, and wonder what the fuck I’m supposed to do now that there’s literally nothing I need to do until Kamden wakes up. Sleep?

Maybe I can steal a few minutes here and there.

My phone’s shrill ring slices through the quiet as if it read my thoughts and went, “Nah.”

God, it’s fucking Mathias.

I press the phone to my ear and answer. “Yeah?”

“You sound thrilled to hear from me.”

I use my tongue to dislodge an oat that got stuck on a tooth. “I’m eating.”

The line is silent. He’s waiting for me to tell him what he knows I know he wants to hear.

I take another bite of the granola bar instead.

Mathias sighs, then says, “The witness. Has he been taken care of?”

My gaze drifts automatically toward the hallway. “Yes.” It’s possibly the most accurate thing I have said all evening.

Kamden has been taken care of.

Mathias goes quiet.

“What?” I ask.

“You tell me.”

“Nothing to tell.”

“Adrien.”

I lean my head back against the couch. “What?”

“You handled the witness.”

“Yes,” I answer shortly, voice flat.

“And that’s all you’re going to say?”

“What would you like? A written report?”