Page 7 of Freeing Ruby

“I understand.” I glance around the apartment. “You don’t have a security system?”

She shakes her head. “No.”

That’s the first problem I want to address. “Are there any security cameras in the building? I didn’t spot any when I came in.”

“No.”

I nod, thinking that’s going to be a problem, too. I’ll talk to the building manager to see about getting permission to place cameras in the hallway so I can see who comes and goes.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she says as she heads for her art studio. The cat follows.

“Sure. Don’t worry about me.”

As I watch her walk away, I can’t help but admire her strength and courage. Despite all of her challenges, she’s still able to support herself and maintain her independence. I glance at her apartment door with three deadbolts and a chain lock. So much fear is keeping her locked inside. She’s essentially a prisoner of her own making. She’s missing out on so much of what life has to offer—friends, a social life, restaurants, theaters, coffee shops, bookstores. Hell, she’s missing out on things as simple as sunshine and fresh air—things the rest of us take for granted.

I’m going to help her, no matter what it takes. The least I can do is restore her sense of safety in her own apartment.

And if someone is terrorizing her, I’m going to put a stop to it.

Chapter 4

Ruby

There’s a stranger in my apartment. No matter how hard I try, I can’t stop thinking about it. Yes, Edward hired Miguel, and he vouches for him, but still—Miguel’s a complete stranger. A tall, dark, very handsome stranger. Even though he looks so intimidating, he seems like a genuinely nice guy. I like his voice—warm and calm. He gives off a steady, reassuring vibe.

Stop thinking about him and focus on your work.

My current project is a tiny portrait of Tilly, a white Shih-Poo with big, dark eyes and a pink diamond-studded collar. Painting a white dog on a four-inch square off-white canvas is a challenge, but I like challenges. I used a pale bluish-gray background so the dog’s white fur would stand out nicely. I like how it’s turning out. It’s looking pretty good if I do say so myself. I’ve already sent several progress images to the client, and she’s happy with it.

I love painting with acrylics. I love mixing colors and watching how the pigments transform before my eyes. When I was a child, art was my escape. I was always coloring or doodling or painting. Now, it’s my career. Not only does it pay the bills, but it gives me something to do. I can easily spend eight or ten hours a day in my art studio and not even realize how much time has passed.

If it weren’t for my art keeping me occupied, I’d be staring at the walls and going out of my mind every time I heard the slightest sound.

As I slip into my chair and reach for my paintbrush, Pumpkin curls up in his cat bed at my feet beneath the table. I try my best to forget about my new temporary house guest. As I dip my brush into the paint, all my worries melt away, at least for a little while.

* * *

I’ve been at work for a good couple of hours when there’s a quiet knock on my door. I glance back to see Miguel practically filling the open doorway.

He pats his flat abdomen. “It’s one o’clock, and I’m pretty hungry,” he says sheepishly. “I took a peek at what’s in the fridge. If it’s okay with you, I think I’ll make myself a sandwich. Would you like one?”

My heart slams against my ribs. “No, thank you,” I answer automatically. “I’m fine.” No one’s fixed a meal for me in years. Not even when I lived with my dad. I always made my own. I’m not comfortable with the idea—it just feels too risky. “You go right ahead and help yourself. There are chips in the pantry and drinks in the fridge. The bread’s in the bread box.”

“Are you sure you don’t want something?” he asks. “It’s no trouble, really.”

I shake my head. “Thanks, but I’m not hungry.”

He nods. “Let me know if you change your mind.” And then he heads back down the hallway.

I go back to my painting, but before long I can’t concentrate because my stomach is growling. It’s been hours since I had breakfast, and now I’m starving. But I couldn’t let him make food for me—it’s far too intimate. I don’t trust easily. It’s hard enough having him here in my apartment.

Crap. Now what do I do? I told him I wasn’t hungry so if I go to the kitchen now to get myself something to eat, he’ll know I lied to him. So I’ll have to keep working and wait until dinner to eat.

I last another half-hour before low blood sugar starts making me feel jittery. I have no choice but to head for the kitchen, passing him as I go. He’s seated on the sofa, reading a hardcover book. He glances up at me and smiles. He has such a nice smile.

“How’s your work going?” he asks.

“Good. I’m almost done with the painting. I’ll let it dry overnight, then varnish it tomorrow.” I point to the kitchen. “Just thought I’d get a glass of water.” I pour myself a glass and surreptitiously slip a banana from the fruit basket into my sweater pocket. Hopefully this will tide me over until dinner.

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