Page 81 of Seeing Grayscale

What am I going to do? Sit around in this house for days on end while Hunter lives his life? Hoping he won’t get fed up with hiding me here when he comes back?

I press the power button on my phone, looking through all the little icons on the home screen. There’s got to be a way to access the internet on this thing. A sphere with red, yellow, and green sits at the bottom of it, so I click on it. In bright, bold letters, a white screen with Google written across it appears.

The first thing I type ishomeless shelter. So many options pop up that for a moment, I’m crippled by anxiety. I’ve tried those before—when I got out of jail the second time—but they were always full. Mostly, the women and small children were prioritized. I understood why, but it didn’t change the rejection I felt.

After two attempts, I never went back.

It takes me about seven tries to figure out how to get to the original search area. When I finally get it to cooperate, I type injobs that hire felons.And that’s what I do for the next three hours.

Defeated by Google and the few jobs thatmighthire me, I eventually go back into the house when it gets too cold.

I’m on the hunt for paper and a pen so I can write the options down somewhere, but the downstairs of Hunter’s house doesn’t have a fucking thing. He’s rich, so he’s got to have a home office.

I take the stairs slowly, careful of my healing leg, and climb. At the top, I quickly scan the layout, spotting four doors. The first reveals a barren bathroom—a toilet and a bathtub with nothing else. I don’t think it’s ever been used.

Moving on to the second, I find an empty room beside it. I mean, it’s just four walls and some carpet. Frowning, I open the third door and find precisely the same thing.

What the fuck?

When I reach the very last one, determined now, I rip it open and discover Hunter’s bedroom.

“Not even a damn desk?”

He’s got a nice bed, dark sheets, and a comforter. There’s a walk-in closet, which, as I peer inside, I find all his suits and fancy shoes. The smell of his cologne is strong in here, but not much else. A nightstand with a digital alarm clock, a lamp, and chargers is by his bed. Maybe rich people don’t need paper.

Maybe they just stash all their notes in their phones—how to do so is a mystery to me.

On the far wall is a dresser. I pull open the top drawer and find his underwear and socks. A shit ton of soft looking boxer briefs make up the majority. The middle drawers are empty. I find a single manilla folder at the bottom, which I have to kneel to open.

It’s ominous, definitely not meant to be snooped through, but I have it in my hands before I can blink.

The contents inside it are dumped out even faster.

Swiveling so I can sit on my ass, I spread out the papers. My breath catches on the first one. Hunter has his pilot’s license. It’s there in black and white. A few transcripts from some school are next—straight As. More sifting, and then I come across Doctor Perry’s clinic’s header. It’s the same one that was on my prescriptions.

Hunter Everett Kade.

I didn’t know he had a middle name.

Nibbling on my thumb, I spot the date of the paper. It’s from eleven years ago—almost twelve. He was eighteen. The document shows what I think are lab results. I recognize a few abbreviations, but most are unknown to me. At the very bottom are Perry’s notes.

Positive for Chlamydia.

There are a bunch of medical terms attached to the diagnosis, as well as the treatment plan. Hunter’s words from that evening he found me, the one where I was still fucking bleeding after what Dan’s goons did to me, cross my mind.

Most STDs are treatableif caught early.

It hasn’t gone unnoticed how frequently Hunter showers, or how weird he acts about being dirty. I don’t know why, but I never thought this could be part of the reason. Maybe it isn’t. Maybe I’m reading into it.

Guilt nags at my skull, stomach churning because I’ve invaded his privacy like this. Just as I’m about to put the papers away and pretend I never saw them, a throat clears behind me.

I freeze, ice shooting down my spine, and then I act.

I quickly stuff the papers under the dresser, but it’s too late.

“What are you doing, Gray?”

THIRTY-SIX

---