Page 60 of Twisted Little Thing

My shifts are random and I have a tendency to change jobs every few months. I don't do that for fun but rather out of necessity.

I only work these jobs because I have to, because I am not earning enough money with my few little freelance writing project .

But I know all of this. I knew all of this before Evan came along and pointed it out.

This is stupid. This whole assignment is stupid.

What does he expect? I have a million things going through my head – most of them are connected to him and what happened to us.

He cannot expect me to quietly sit down right now and evaluate my life, come up with a new idea and plans that I haven't thought of already.

Besides, I am hungry. I need to eat.

I'm sure he'll understand.

I throw the little notebook and my pen aside and finally get out of bed.

Just a few hours later, I am standing in front of our full body mirror in the hallway, giving myself a last minute check before I leave the house. I am wearing another one of my few dresses. One that he has not seen before. It is strapless, which – as I am to find out later – will turn out to be the perfect choice for tonight.

He promised to pick me up, but when I walk through the door downstairs, I don’t see his car anywhere. I hesitate for a moment, scanning my surroundings. I wait for him at the top of the stairs. He is nowhere to be seen.

That’s odd. Usually, he would be a few minutes early, waiting for me. I have never been the one waiting for him.

This is the first time that I have stepped outside after what happened at the restaurant.

I feel weirdly exposed, scared even. But of what?

I keep looking around, to the left and right, scanning the familiar street up and down again and again. There is nothing unusual going on, as far as I can tell.

Why do I feel uneasy, scared?

Why is he not here yet?

Fraught with irrational thoughts beginning to take a hold of me, which is unusual because I am not one to lose my head this easily. But here I am standing at the top of my stairs, unable to let go of the doorknob as if it was a lifeline, unpleasant ideas starting to creep up.

What if he tricked me? Maybe he never planned to show up, maybe he is playing a sick little game with me?

He likes to control me; he likes the way he manages to have me wrapped around his finger in so many ways. What if it pleases him to humiliate me, too?

What if someone is taking pictures of me right now?

"Don't be ridiculous," I hiss to myself.

But at that exact moment, I notice something. There is a car parked across the street. Nothing unusual at first sight. Just an average car parked like many others.

Except there is someone sitting in it. It appears to be a middle-aged man. He is not paying any attention to me, but he looks like he’s fiddling with something in his lap. From where I am standing, I cannot tell what it is.

My brain is pretty quick at completing the picture, though. A camera. He could be holding a camera.

My breathing accelerates. Please, no.

I keep staring at the man, but whatever he is doing keeps him occupied.

And then he looks up – directly at me!

I gasp and turn around, fetching my key as fast as I possibly can to open the door.

I have no idea if he is still looking at me, or if he is taking pictures.

---