Page 59 of Caught in the Middle

Chapter Nineteen

Lucy's heart leaped into her mouth as she stayed there on all fours, staring gormlessly at the bag half tucked away under the bed. In the manic rush in which she had entered this house, she must have just carelessly flung it wherever, and the cleaner must have missed it this morning.

She didn't even want to touch it. She may have only been a part of Joey Leonardo's world for less than 24 hours, but that bag just felt like it belonged to a different world entirely. Not the glamorous future she was about to embark on, but the cold, grey slum that represented her past week, of being on the run from this very lifestyle.

And then it dawned on her: She had no idea what was even in it.

Curiosity of course got the better of her, and she pulled it towards her, placing it onto the bed. It was a lot heavier than she remembered.

She slowly unzipped it, a little bit of fear bubbling up inside of her. She now saw Oliver in a different light, as the cold, callous murderer he was. Before, she had just believed it was full of clothes for her to survive, but now, she couldn't be so sure.

She yanked it open with one last tug, and, because it was so jam packed, she decided to just tip everything out onto the bed.

Hell, she was probably just going to destroy everything inside of it anyway.

The huge wad of cash he had pressed into her palm fell out first, and then a pile of neatly folded clothes followed. Lucy rummaged through them, not entirely sure what she was expecting to find.

The clothes were basic, comfortable. A few T-shirts, a couple pairs of trousers, a bathing suit, sun cream and the like.

Typical Oliver. She had only known him for a few days, but she felt like she had him summed up. He wanted everything to be practical, even when he wore the most expensive suits himself.

Lucy poked and prodded through the clothes, although she wasn't sure what she was looking for. Perhaps something which just showed her why.

Why he lied to her.

Why he woke up that morning and decided to ship her off to a foreign country.

Why he killed Joey's sister.

Amongst the clothes, she found one of the plain, cotton T-shirts he made her buy by in that hiking shop in the services station.

And she couldn't help herself. She brought it her nose, and breathed it in. Her heart sank as she realised she had found what she shouldn't be looking for: his scent.

The smell of his aftershave lingered faintly on the shirt. It brought back how he made her feel. The butterflies and the nervous excitement she felt being on the run with him. How the fear didn't matter, because she felt safe with him.

Tears came to her eyes as she finally had a moment to take in the fact that he was a massive liar. And she had stupidly fallen for it all.

With a new wave of anger, she crumpled up the T-shirt to throw into the heap she had made on the bed - but stopped short at the sound of a rustling noise.

She crumpled it again. And it rustled again.

What the?

The noise was definitely coming from the shirt. So she flipped it inside out, and caught sight of a tiny, folded square of paper. It had been sewn in, using just one simple stitch across the tightly folded square.

Her heart thudding, she plucked it off, not caring if she ripped the crappy cotton or not.

Go for a run with Elijah.

She read it again. And again. And again - until the words were just a blurry haze of black Biro on a white paper.

Who the fuck was Elijah? Her head pounded as she tried to rack her brains for answers. It was as if he wanted her to crack the Da Vinci Code, however it made no sense. She couldn't figure out if there was actually somebody called Elijah, or it was some weird, code word that Oliver was using.

It briefly flitted through her head that, this scrawling handwriting was definitely not the same as used on the letter she had read from Oliver to Joey, regarding Layla.

She was surprised at herself for even wondering about that, but something about that thought did not sit easy with her.

Well, they were both rich men, of course. Rich men didn't do such menial tasks, such as writing and sewing themselves.

---