Page 49 of Lust

But then I see what’s on the kitchen table. My heart stops beating together. There’s a cluster of wires and tiny gadgets, some no larger than the head of a screw. The jumbled pile spills across the formica surface of the table.

“What’s all this?” My voice sounds foreign. Terrified.

“Yeah, I’d be scared, too.” Brent stares at me, the whites visible around his cold blue eyes. “Apparently, someone’s had our house bugged. You, Carol. They’ve been watching you.” He pulls a small, round, flat piece of metal out of the pile and dangles it in front of me. “This one was in your bathroom. He was watching you shower.”

“He?” My heart starts beating again, but it’s an uneven staccato. I feel faint. “How do you know it’s a he? And why me? There’s a whole pile of shit here. What’s to say they weren’t watching you, too?”

“There was a tracker on your car.” His voice is eerily calm. “I found that last night. But there was none on mine.”

I shrug, eyes wide.

Brent slams both fists onto the table. The vibration sends wires and gadgets tumbling to the floor.

“C’mon, Ruby. How big an idiot do you think I am?”

I freeze. Brent never calls me Ruby anymore.

He stares at me, jaw clenched and nostrils flared.

“That’s what he calls you, right?” he sneers. “Your little friend? Or should I say, ‘boyfriend’?”

Fear boils the pit of my stomach, sending searing flames into my throat.

“You think I haven’t noticed all the little presents? Not just the diamond necklace. Earrings. Rings. And that god-awful perfume. The shit you used to wear in high school. Yeah, fuck, I liked it then. But the minute I smelled it on you the other day, I knew he had to be involved. And then I find this shit.” He picks up another camera, this one a little silver number the size of the head of a pin. He drops it into my hand. Tiny wires drape across my palm. “This was embedded in the mirror in your bedroom. Pointed toward your bed.”

“You really think—” but I stop myself before Aaron’s name crosses my lips. I can’t let Brent know his suspicions are true.

“What I think is that you and I are going for a little ride, Ruby. Get your purse. We’re going out.”

Why would he be so insistent that I get my purse?Then, I remember all the stories about missing persons, and how they always talk about whether the person’s purse went missing with them. And I know without a shadow of a doubt that I’m about to go missing, that I’m not actually crazy, and that whatever Brent’s been planning all this time is finally coming to a head.

“Fine.” I whirl and hurry to my bedroom. “I’ll even use the potty first so we don’t have to stop along the way.”

Surprised not to hear the sound of footsteps behind me, I run to my closet and reach up onto the highest shelf. It doesn’t take long to realize why Brent didn’t bother following me, though: the shelf is empty. That’s when I finally look around my closet and notice that everything from that shelf has been tossed on the floor. Without sparing a millisecond in thought, I race into the bathroom, where I lock the door behind me and turn on the faucet.

I know being scared is supposed to make a person pee themselves, but the terror currently stabbing me in the gut seems to have the opposite effect. I sit on the toilet for what feels like forever, but nothing comes out.

Then Brent starts knocking on the door.

“What the fuck are you doing in there, Carol? We’re not going to a fucking beauty pageant.”

“Coming!” I shout, and splash cold water on my face.

“Now!” he hollers, “or I’ll break this motherfucking door down and drag you out.”

As much as I want to buy time, I believe what he says about breaking down the door, so I towel off my hands, take a deep, trembling breath and open the door.

Only to find myself staring into the barrel of my gun.

“Looking for this?” Brent waves the weapon toward the front door, indicating for me to walk in that direction. “You really think I’m a complete idiot, don’t you? Well, it’s finally time you learned your lesson.” He walks behind me down the hallway, occasionally jabbing at my back with the pistol like he’s prodding cattle to the slaughter.

“You’re driving,” he says flatly, handing me the keys to his truck.

I oblige, wondering whether I should just drive into a telephone pole.

As I pull away from the house, I remember my recent “kidnapping” by Aaron, and my heart sinks. Without the cameras, without the tracker on my car, how will my angel even know I’m gone?

Aaron

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