Page 20 of The Tower

He's shaking his head, adding some mustard on the sandwiches before he says, "I don't know, Libby. I guess I was going for the latter here."

"Because you don't want to see me dead," I repeat his former statement. "But other people do?"

The expression on his face tightens when he nods. "Yes."

"The ones you work with? The guys who shot my aunt?"

"Yes."

"Who are you working for?" I probe. "Why were you at that event to kill my aunt and uncle?"

He doesn't respond and just keeps his head low, focusing on the sandwiches in front of him as if they were the most complex task a person could face.

"Were they the only ones you wanted to kill?" I continue my questioning, hoping he'll eventually give in and answer at least one more of my many, many questions. "Or were there others? Did you have like... a list or something?"

He looks up, locking me with his dark gaze for a moment before he responds. "Are you sure you want to know all these things?"

"I wouldn't ask if I didn't," I say, frowning at him. "Wouldn't you want to know if you were me right now?"

Keane sighs and shrugs his broad shoulders. He's wearing a tight black shirt, accentuating his muscular frame and revealing the half sleeve tattoo on his left arm. He looks dangerous.

Deliciously dangerous.

I've always been drawn to men like him. Men who radiate violence and misconduct. Men who play by their own rules.

Men who get you in trouble.

However, never in a thousand years would I have expected this fascination to go this far. This man is a killer. He shot at me, and even though that bullet was meant for someone else, it still left me injured. The doctor at the safe house said that I would make a full recovery but would need physical therapy to regain full mobility.

Physical therapy. Right now, even something as mundane as that seems unobtainable for me.

I wonder how long it will be until someone notices that I'm gone? Of course, my uncle knows. But does he care? Is he glad I'm gone? Does he think I'm dead?

Does he wish I was?

Other than him, I don't know who'd even notice my absence any time soon. Most of my friends from college left shortly after graduation to return home, pursuing graduate studies in a different state or starting their first job. I was one of the very few who stayed in California for a while longer, uncertain what to do with my life. Traveling all the way back to the East Coast, returning to the city that's closest to a place I could call home was a spontaneous decision, born out of utter disorientation.

I flew back aimlessly, and right into the hands of a contract killer.

A contract killer who is now preparing a light dinner for me.

I watch in anticipation as Keane joins me on the couch, serving the sandwiches on a wooden tray. "Eat."

I cast him a short glare, torn between the urge to reject his demand and the fierce hunger that's making my stomach growl.

"I'll eat. If you tell me about that event," I say, trying not to make my craving for food get in the way of my determination to obtain information from him.

He regards me with narrow eyes, slowly shaking his head.

"Don't test me, Libby," he says. "You're not in the position to make deals with me."

"What kind of position am I in then?" I hiss at him. "I'm not your kidnapping bait, but I am your prisoner. I have no worth to you, but you still feel responsible for my safety. I'm not dead, but I should be..."

"Eat," he repeats his command. "Just take a fucking sandwich, and I'll tell you while you eat."

I only last for one short moment before I reach for one of the sandwiches, casting him a dark look as I take my first bite. I was hoping for him to start talking as soon as I obeyed his demand, but instead, he starts eating himself. It's hard to hide my disappointment, but I also can't blame him, considering he must be just as hungry as I am.

We eat in tense silence for a while; both avoiding eye contact the entire time. My gaze wanders through the room, trying to find any clues that would help me make sense of him or this house. He said it was his, but it doesn't look like he lives here. As a matter of fact, it doesn't look like anyone has ever lived here even though the place is furnished. Two big sofas and a loveseat are arranged around a fireplace that doesn't look like it's been used recently. Two bookshelves line the wall, but there's nothing on them. The curtains around the small windows were closed when we stepped inside, and the room was almost as cold as the outside. The furniture is simple and modern, new and seemingly unused.

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