Page 23 of Kept

He’s back. He told me he wouldn’t be back for a while… but we haven’t exactly been keeping to routine, lately.

Maybe he’s changed his mind, but he was so angry earlier.

Maybe he’s back for something else.

Slowly, I press myself back against the cabinet. It won’t do any good, but I feel better feeling that there’s something hiding me, even if it’s temporary. And if he’s expecting me to be in my usual spot, waiting obediently like a little lapdog, then he doesn’t really know me at all.

I think I’m done following Ethan’s instructions.

I hear the elevator open, footsteps tapping.

Footsteps. Toomanyfootsteps. Heavy ones.

I suck in a breath and hold it.

I don’t think this is Ethan. He’d never bring someone else here.

A new type of fear locks inside my chest.

Straining my ears, I let out a shaky breath and try to keep them even and quiet. I scooch forward an inch, but the sound of a male voice freezes me to the spot.

“I’ll tell you now, Moore has some weird as fuck fetishes.”

There’s another person inside the apartment. Someone who definitely isn’t Ethan.

A second voice sounds, but this one only grunts.

“I mean, look at this shit. If you looked upcreepy fuckerin the dictionary, his picture would be a full-page spread.”

Another grunt. “He’s an art collector.”

“I feel like they’re going to come to life and suck out my soul.”

“They wouldn’t want your soul.”

“Well, that’s rude.” The voice sounds affronted, and I use the raised voice to slide open the door behind me. I don’t want to risk moving around anymore, so I wrap my fingers around the handle of the first thing I feel.

Glancing down as I lift it out, I bite my lip.

A wok. Very dangerous.

But I still feel better as I close the door gently and lean back against it, the cool wooden handle held firmly in both hands. The footsteps continue winding their way through the room.

They’re going to see me. They’ll see the chain, or my—

Oh, no.

Myhair.

Frantically, I look down to where it’s spread out in a long, tangled mess that extends out way past my hiding place behind the cabinet, into the apartment. Slowly, I take one hand off my weapon and drag it towards me, inch by perilous inch.

“Stop.” The second voice cuts off the ranting of the first, and silence cuts through. I drop the hair like my fingers are on fire.

The footsteps get closer, and I huddle in, squeezing my wok for dear life.

Oh god. Oh god. Oh—

Feet appear in front of me, and I glance up… and up.

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