Page 66 of Stealing His Cupcake
Wespendthenextfew days in a strange limbo. The threat is out there, as I’m constantly reminded by Wyatt checking his phone a million times a day or patrolling the area around the house in his vest with a gun in hand. It’s a good thing we don’t have any immediate neighbors because they would have definitely called the police on him by now.
I make an entire box of cookies and other small pastries for Geraldine’s book club, but don’t get to deliver them personally. Wyatt takes them over, only leaving after reminding me for the fiftieth time to stay inside and not open the door under any circumstances. His nervousness is rubbing off on me and, while he deals with it by rechecking our security over and over, I battle it with an upbeat attitude. I bake, I cook, I clean the house and do the laundry, and I do it all with a smile. It’s not even a fake smile. The danger is abstract enough for me to feel safe and happy most of the time. I’m sure it would be very different if Nolan tried to attack us again or lurked around the house, but there’s been no sign of him in these parts. Or anywhere else, really. Wyatt’s hacker is presumably searching for him but, judging by the angry phone calls I’ve overheard, hasn’t had much luck.
Until today.
It’s a windy, overcast day, the clouds heavy with the promise of rain. Like a cursed omen, thunder booms in the distance just as Wyatt’s phone rings. He rushes to answer it, darkness swirling in his eyes as he listens to the voice on the other side. “When? … Camera feeds? … Vehicle?” His terse questions are punctuated by moments of silence in which I assume the hacker provides him with more information. “Could you get into his phone?” At the answer, Wyatt’s expression darkens. “Then you didn’t try hard enough! I don’t pay you to smoke weed and slack off all day!”
Wanting to support and perhaps calm him down a little, I wrap my arms around him, resting my head against his chest. His heart beats strongly underneath my ear, the regular sound soothing.
Taking a slow breath, Wyatt continues more quietly, “Keep trying. And inform me immediately if he leaves. If you fuck this up, I swear to god I’m coming for you and once I’m done with you, they’ll need a bucket, mop, and a fucking map to find all of you.”
A stuttered “y-yes, s-sir” comes from the receiver before Wyatt ends the call. “Fuck,” he mutters. Lowering his head to my hair, he takes another deep breath, and I feel some of the tension bleed out of his body. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell in front of you, cupcake. Are you alright?”
At first, I don’t understand why he’s asking. Then I realize he’s worried he triggered me with his threats. Knowing that he wasn’t bluffing, that he’d reduce the man to bloody, quivering pieces, should scare me. Except it doesn’t. I’ve never felt safer than in Wyatt’s arms and the only thing that worries me is that he’s about to leave. “I’m fine. Did the hacker find Nolan?”
“Yeah.” Wyatt pauses, as if to consider how much he wants to tell me, but must decide that being fully informed is the safest option for me. “He’s holed up in a motel about thirty miles from here. He paid cash to stay untraceable at first, but just used his credit card. In a fucking vending machine.” Wyatt scoffs. “It’s really a wonder he’s still alive.”
“Yeah.” Even I’d know not to use a credit card when hiding from someone. Not that I had much money on my cards prior to marrying Wyatt, anyway. Now I have several fancy cards with enough money to buy a fancy car. Or a plane. I don’t need either, but knowing that I could is dizzying. “Isn’t it strange, though?” I ask, forcing my thoughts back to the problem at hand. “Shouldn’t he know at least something? You said he killed some people already and he clearly hasn’t been caught, so…”
Wyatt hums thoughtfully. “You think he’s smarter than he’s letting show. That it might be a trap.”
I wasn’t thinking exactly that, but if he wants to consider me a brilliant strategist, I won’t argue. Especially if it makes him safer. “Maybe? He must know you’re after him. I just don’t want something happening to you.”
“I’ll be careful,” Wyatt promises. “He’s just one person. Even if he expects me, I can take him out. That’s what I do, Amy. I just need to know that you’re safe, otherwise I’ll never be able to focus.”
“I’ll stay safe.” The last thing I want is him getting hurt because he was too busy worrying about me. “I’ll stay inside, keep the blinds closed, and my phone on me. I won’t leave the house or let anyone in,” I repeat the rules he’s drilled into me. Said out loud, my role sounds lame. Wyatt will be out chasing and killing the bad guy. Me? I’ll sit on the couch. Useless. But if that’s what Wyatt needs me to do, I’ll do it. I’ll be the best couch-sitter in the universe if it means he’ll come back to me in one piece.
Arms wrapped tightly around me, Wyatt is breathing deeply into my hair. “Fuck,” he sighs. “Why is this so difficult?”
Because you love me? I want to ask, but keep my mouth shut. Now is not the time to dissect our feelings. “I’ll be fine, Wyatt. Really. Do you want some cookies for the road?” As soon as I ask, I want to smack myself. Did I really offer him some cookies for a murder trip? What is wrong with me?
Laughing, Wyatt kisses the top of my head before, albeit reluctantly, letting go of me. “I’d love that. I might have to stake Nolan out for a while before making my move to make sure there aren’t any surprises. A snack will be more than welcome.”
I’m not sure if he’s saying that just to humor me or if he actually wants a snack for his people-killing mission, but either way, I go to the kitchen to pack all the remaining cookies for him. I can always make more. In fact, I probably will, if only not to go crazy while I wait for him to return. Or maybe I could try making something more difficult. Something to fully occupy my mind and my hands because, let’s face it, a five-year-old can make cookies. Maybe I’ll try the mirror glaze cake again. It didn’t really turn out well the last time I tried it, though Wyatt ate it without a single complaint. When it comes to mirror glaze cakes, there’s always room for improvement.
My breath hitches when Wyatt returns, holding that familiar duffel bag he was carrying when I first saw him. A bag full of murder gear. I remember how efficiently he wrapped Turbo’s body into a handy plastic sheet, securing it with yards of duct tape like a seasoned gift wrapper. “What are you going to do with the body?” I find myself asking.
Wyatt gives me a strange look. To be honest, I’d give myself a strange look, too. It was a stupid question. “I’ll deal with it,” he replies evasively. “Don’t worry.”
“Got people who will disappear him, right?” Why am I still talking? I should not be allowed to talk again because, clearly, my brain has left the premises.
“Right. Are you okay, Amy?”
Am I? “I will be once you’re back. I’ll make a cake.” Jesus Christ. Just shoot me now. “I mean, not to celebrate the murder. It’s not, like, a birthday cake. A deathday cake? No, that would be weird. I can make the glazing black though. I have a whole packet of black food coloring. It came with the other colors, but I don’t really use it much other than that one time—”
Wyatt kisses me, effectively interrupting my stupid word-vomit. Thank god. I melt into the kiss, letting him take the lead, and realize I’m trembling. So much for an upbeat attitude.
“Amy, I have to kill him.”
“I know. I don’t care about that. I’m just worried you’ll get hurt.”
Tilting my head back, he forces me to look at him. “I won’t. I promise.” A sigh. Then he kisses my forehead. “I have to go.” But he doesn’t move.
“I know.” I do know, but I don’t want him to leave. Maybe I’ve hit the peak of Stockholm syndrome but, at this point, I might be the one tying him to the bed to stop him from leaving. “Just come back to me. I don’t care who you need to kill. Kill a million people if it gets you back home.”
Wyatt chuckles. “You don’t mean that.” One more kiss, then he grabs his duffle and the bag of cookies and strides toward the garage entrance. “See you later, cupcake,” he says as he shuts the door.
“Later,” I whisper, though he can’t hear me anymore. I watch as he backs the SUV out of the garage, waving at me before taking off down the road. There’s one more thing I realize as I watch his car disappear between the wind-whipped trees. I did mean it. I don’t care who he kills. I just want him back home.
