Page 76 of Stealing His Cupcake
A little chuckle is all I get for a joke I’ve probably repeated too many times already. Approaching me, Amy dutifully kisses me, but is there hesitation in that kiss? Regret? Disgust? I can’t even tell anymore and every second I spend cooped up in the house with no outlet for my restless energy is making me doubt everything we have. If we even had anything to begin with. I kidnapped her, after all.
From the kitchen, I watch her greet her driving instructor. A female driving instructor. That part was Amy’s idea, one I wholeheartedly agreed with. She correctly guessed that a male instructor wouldn’t live long enough to get her through the road test. I might not deserve her, but I’ll still kill any fucker who looks at her for too long.
Or will I? Do I still have that in me? After all, my last attempt failed spectacularly. I was reckless and stupid and it nearly cost Amy her life. My chest constricts around my erratically beating heart as I imagine something like that happening again. Why am I even thinking about this? Amy already has all the reasons to hate me. I don’t need to add more by slaughtering people for the terrible crime of admiring my beautiful wife. I mean, it’s totally justifiable to me, but I’m sure she wouldn’t agree.
Logically, I know it’s a terrible idea, but the itch is still there. Not to kill, but to go out there, to hunt, to prove that it’s still me, that I’m still capable of doing the one thing I know how to do. Because if I’m not a killer, then what the fuck am I? A grumpy old recluse sitting in a swing chair on his back porch while his wife cooks, cleans, and brings him beer and cookies? Just shoot me now. Amy deserves so much better.
Better than me.
The thought is startling in its clarity. I’m a selfish bastard. I took Amy because I was obsessed with her, not once asking for her opinion. I barely even considered the fact that she might not want to abandon her life in Kansas City, that she might not want to move to the ass end of beyond, and that she might not want to marry a killer who kidnapped her. That she might not want to have sex with him.
I fucking raped that woman. How am I any better than her asshole of an ex? They should bury me next to him.
I know what I have to do. I might not like it. Hell, I hate it already, but for once in my fucked-up life, I have to do the right thing. Something I should have done weeks ago when I first met Amy.
I have to let her go.
Chapter 54
Amy
Wakingupinanempty bed isn't new to me, although lately I’ve gotten used to soaking up Wyatt’s warmth in those early lazy mornings when we lie curled against each other, not talking or kissing, simply enjoying each other’s presence. Wyatt’s spot on the bed is cold despite the sun barely being up, and it worries me enough to slip out of bed and pull on a warm robe.
“Wyatt?” He’s not in the bathroom. Perhaps he couldn’t sleep and went to make us breakfast? Except there’s no smell of sizzling bacon filling the house when I enter the living room. It’s quiet, eerily so. My arms prickle with gooseflesh as I realize just how quiet it is, my mind flashing back to the oppressive silence of my apartment after Kayla left and I realized I was truly, completely alone. Which is ridiculous. I’m not alone. I have Wyatt now and I will never be alone again.
My unease grows when I don’t find him on the back porch either. Passing back through the silent house, I stop at the basement door. He must be down there. The doctors said he could start lightly working out again and I know how badly he was itching to get back to his usual strength.
Yes. That’s where he is. If I open the door, I will find him there, looking deliciously sweaty as he lifts dumbbells or jogs on the treadmill. I’ll spend a few minutes ogling him, then kiss him and take him to bed and everything will be fine, just fine. There’s nothing to be worried about, so why is my heart racing and my hands tremble as I reach for the knob? This is Wyatt. Wyatt, who had been obsessed with me before he even met me in person. Wyatt, who forced me to marry him. Who nearly killed a man just for looking at me wrong. Who has been nothing but kind and supportive and… Okay, he might have been acting a little strange these past few days, always talking to someone on his phone, leaving the room so I wouldn’t overhear his conversations, and barely even talking to me or touching me or holding me at night or—
No. This is Wyatt. He said I was his forever. He wouldn’t…what, cheat on me? Leave me?
He wouldn’t leave me.
Would he?
“Wyatt?” Easing the basement door open, I pause and listen, desperate to hear something. Anything. A clang of a dumbbell, a thud of feet, a huff of a breath. Anything other than this terrifying, oppressive silence. “Wyatt, please.” My voice trembles, but I still try to hold myself together as I descend the basement steps. With rows of cans and packs of non-perishable food, glasses of homemade marmalade, and modern gym equipment, it’s not a scary place, but right now, it might just be the gate to Hell itself because of how quiet and empty it is.
I hold back a whimper threatening to break free. There’s a logical explanation for Wyatt’s absence. I’m certain of it. Perhaps he went to a doctor’s appointment? Or had to run some errand he forgot to tell me about. Went for a ride to clear his head. He did mention he hated being cooped up in the house. Maybe he just went for a walk. Yeah, that’s it. He must have gone for a walk. Alone. At night?
What if something happened? Another danger, like the situation with Nolan? Did he have to leave in a hurry to protect us? Or was he taken? No,that’s nonsense. I was right there next to him. We went to bed together, cuddling like usual. We haven’t had sex since he got injured because the doctors strictly prohibited it, but since he was feeling better, I thought we might try something. Wyatt just kissed me, whispering goodnight into my hair as he held me. Tighter than usual. I thought it meant he was getting out of the rough patch, but what if—
No.
Storming out of the basement, I check the garage. The SUV is still there which— Which doesn’t really mean anything. Back in the bedroom, I grab my phone and dial Wyatt’s number. In just a second, I will hear his voice and everything will be back to normal. Everything will be alright.
Instead of Wyatt’s voice, a robotic message greets me. “We’re sorry, the number you have reached has been disconnected or is no longer in service.”
“N-no…” The phone nearly slips from my suddenly numb fingers but I catch it, dialing Wyatt’s number again and again, only to be met by the same message.
A disconnected number. That’s not the same as just turning his phone off. He had to call the phone operator to get his number disconnected.
As dull pain spreads through my chest, it’s getting harder and harder to stop myself from panicking.
Perhaps the police were after him? That would explain the disconnected number. Perhaps he had to run to avoid them, but why wouldn’t he say anything to me? I would have gone with him. I would have followed him anywhere.
In a daze, I head to the bathroom. Wyatt will be back. He has to be back. He would never leave me. I just need to pull myself together and I can start with brushing my damned teeth so I don’t have morning breath when I finally get to kiss my damned husband. Yes. That’s a good idea. Except—
A raw sob tears through me when I notice that the cup on the bathroom sink only holds one toothbrush. Mine. Wyatt’s is gone, along with his shaving kit and his cosmetics. His hairbrush. His towel. He had time to pack a freaking towel but not to tell me he had to leave?
