Page 3 of Wanted

He nodded and detoured to grab his backpack, then returned to the window and climbed out.

I exhaled and turned my attention back to my father. He had the TV in the living room on as loud as it could go and now, he was bellowing at the game.

Hoping he’d remain distracted, I crept down the hall and snuck into the kitchen with as much stealth as I could muster. After snagging a bag of frozen peas from the freezer and grabbing the ibuprofen, I scuttled back to my bedroom and locked the door.

Suddenly drained, I collapsed on my bed and then slid to the floor, pressing the frozen peas to my cheek.

I tried to cry.

I wanted to cry.

Hell, Ineededto cry.

But… nothing. I felt dead inside—and that scared me more than anything.

I needed to feel.Dosomething to numb the pain that shriveled my soul, made me feel like I was a shell of a person, already dead, a ghost of myself haunting my own life.

I felt under my bed until my fingers tripped over the small silver box that held a razor blade and alcohol wipes. Still numb, I pulled it out and flipped open the lid. It took only a second to clean the blade, and then, I was pulling my shorts up as far as I could, eyeing the small white scars crisscrossing my inner thighs.

With a deep breath, I pressed the metal blade into my flesh, gently at first, then with more pressure until I felt the skin brake under that sharp edge of pain.

Crimson blood spilled and dripped down my pale leg.

Relief surged through me, almost as if the seeping blood released the poison lurking in my soul. I sighed as the tears finally began to fall.

I'm not proud of it, and I’m not writing for sympathy. But I promised I wouldn't paint myself in a false, flattering light, and I'm keeping my word—at least, in this instance.

Carefully, I cleaned myself with an alcohol wipe, applied a bandage, and then shoved the container back under my bed.

It was time to move on. I had an interview. I opened my purse and grabbed my ‘borrowed’ outfit, a conservative navy-blue, button-up dress with matching slip-on ballet shoes. Everything fit to a T and minutes later, I stood in front of the mirror, staring at the image reflected there.

“Not bad,” I murmured. No, I looked damn good. Striking, even. The color brought out the blue in my eyes and complemented my dark hair and fair skin. Of course, I could still see the tattoos on my arms, but as practically everyone had them these days, I didn't see how that would be a problem.

Then, I glanced at my cheek and winced outright at the dramatic array of reds and blues standing out against my white skin in a nice bruise despite the ice and meds.

It took a good twenty minutes to do my makeup, thanks to the purple spreading over my cheekbone. I flinched each time I dabbed on the concealer, but finally, I’d finished and even I couldn't tell I'd been hit. I just had to keep my fingers crossed that my eye wouldn’t swell. Then, there’d be no hiding my injury.

After one last dab of lip gloss, I followed my brother's path and shimmied through the window. I made it back to my car and then I was off again, before my father knew I'd even left.

It was dusk by the time I reached the address for my interview. I switched off the engine and settled in my car, preparing to wait, as instructed, until full darkness descended.

I didn’t mind. It gave me the chance to study the mansion I’d be cleaning, provided I got the job, of course.

The place was massive, by far the largest and remotest estate in and around our small town. A forest of trees blanketed the mansion from the road and you had to drive down a long, winding driveway before you’d even catch a glimpse of the slate tile roof. It wasn’t until the last bend, when you were upon the place that you got a good view.

Other than the ornately carved tall, black double arched front door, the mansion was entirely white with stately columns that gave it a Roman villa vibe. Fountains graced the lawn and a meticulous garden of red roses lined the walkway from the drive to the front door.

For a place that had been vacant forever, it looked remarkably well kept. The man who’d bought it last month was a mystery in our small Northern California town. No one had seen him, but everyone had heard the rumors of his wealth and that he’d paid for the place in cash. With that kind of money, he had to be dripping with diamonds. He'd have to be to buy the place. Few could afford it, and those who could didn't want it after… well, after everything went down. A real estate agent is required by law to disclose when a murder's been committed on a property. That typically doesn’t help sell a place.

I sat in my car, tapping a beat on the steering wheel as I watched and waited. Finally, the sun sank out of view and when the full moon hung over the treetops, fully visible, I checked my phone and scanned the job details one last time.

Job details. Check. Like I hadn’t had them memorized already. Well, there was nothing left to do but get the show on the road.

Inhaling a deep breath, I exited my car and walked to the entrance. After lifting the brass knocker and giving the door a sharp rap, I rubbed my sweating palms against my thigh without thinking. Damnit. I’d just left a dark wet smudge on the borrowed dress.

I drew a deep breath and glanced around. I'd been here, at the house, once before, but it wasn’t a night I liked to recall.

Fortunately, the door opened, sparing me the memories, and I straightened my spine and tried to act like someone else. Someone poised, polished, and well-spoken. Someone who deserved to scrub the toilets of the filthy rich.

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