Page 33 of His Gift
I stand over her a little longer, running my eyes over every inch of her that's not covered by the sheets, capturing every little sound she makes, wishing, yearning to have her in my arms.
Then, like every night, I sit on her couch and pick up her laptop. I can still see her. Always watching.
Harper's going to therapy. And the doctor makes her keep a journal. I've not opened it. Again, I'm not sure if I want the answers and at the same time I know it would be going too far. Even for me. Even after what she did.
But she's writing again. All the spare time she has she uses to write. And I can't get enough of her stories. They've gotten darker, full of betrayal and a hopeless vision of the world. They suit me far too well.
She's also looked into publishing them, but she's yet to take the first step.
I hope she will. I don't know why I care. I can read them whenever I want to and if she's happy, if she succeeds, it's none of my business anymore.
I'm finishing the last chapter when she whimpers.
I raise my eyes and lock them with hers. After so long.
We stay still, but her face is a mosaic of emotions. I can read some of them: surprise, fear, doubt. Most of them go over my head. And I'm not sure what she's seeing. I'm not sure how I even feel.
But when she says my name, I'm on her in a flash, my hand on her mouth, my lips whispering a breath away from her neck.
"Don't talk. I won't hurt you, but I don't want to talk. I'm going now. Don't tell anyone. Consider this a dream. Convince yourself you were dreaming. I'm letting you go. Not a sound, are we clear?"
She nods and I reluctantly peel my fingers from her face, one by one, and then stand, slowly, pulled back in by her chocolate scent.
When I finally can take a step back, I turn and leave her house.
I'll be back. We both know it. I'll just have to be more careful.
twenty-six
Harper
For a moment, it's hard to breathe. And even harder to accept what happened. Then I stand up, driven by the urgency to check my laptop.
And I fall on the floor because I forgot I need a fucking cane now. Pain flares through me but I ignore it, my eyes fixed on the objective. I needto know.
I painfully make it back on my feet and grab the cane, limping to the couch and sitting down heavily. He was reading my last novel. But it's not what made me rush out of bed. I close the document and check on the last time my journal was accessed. I know it's not always accurate, but I still exhale a sigh of relief when I see it was yesterday morning. Did he not see it? I doubt it. Not Mr. stalker. So he chose not to open it. Which doesn't make me less mad.
I don't want to talk.
Who the fuck cares ifhewants to talk? Berating myself for not taking it with me the first time, I go to pick up my phone and call Conrad. Yes, I still have my kidnapper's number. And I've thought about calling him so many times that I should have deleted it. But I didn't. Besides, I know it by heart.
After a couple of rings, it sends me to voicemail. It's how he wants to play it? Fine.
"Come back, you son of a bitch. You don't want to talk? I don't care. How did you find me? What do you want? Come back here, coward, and talk!"
I end the call and throw the phone away. Then it's the laptop's turn, even though it isn't worth the pain of going back to the couch again. But if I can't throwhimagainst a wall, I'll have to make do with the next best thing.
I'm rocking back and forth, writhing with fury, too mad even to cry, when he comes back. He's impossible to read, as if he put a mask on.
"How long?"
"Two months." His voice is calm, giving away nothing.
"Did you read my journal?"
"No."
"What do you want with me? Why are you here?"
