Page 8 of The Hitch
My living room window has been pried open. And the lock is gone.
I scurry backwards, kicking the rose away from me before bolting to my bedroom. Slamming the door, I hyperventilate into my hands. Who would do this? Whocoulddo this? Why would anyone want to find—
Fuck.
It has to be someone from Charlie's family. They found me. I knew he had sketchy cousins and siblings—I knew someone besides my mom would miss him. They followed me. They followed me from Illinois, they followed me here, they found me.
Dante
Valencia, my office manager, patiently waits for my directive as I scroll through the latest inspection reports and financial statements.
"Offer them double if we can close this week." I pore over the listing photos of Melody's building. Even with the artful editing, the black mold creeping up the walls is obvious.
"Double? You're sure?" Valencia furrows her brow, hands frozen above her laptop keyboard.
"Completely. Call it a premonition, but that building is about to beveryimportant." Rather, it already is, but there's no need to go into details with her. She nods, bouncing her icy blond waves, and resumes typing with fervor. I tap my pen on the mahogany conference table and rise from my seat.
"Is there anything else before you go, sir?" She barely looks away from the computer screen as she asks. I grunt a no and quietly exit the room, heading off to my private office.
Bright natural light streams in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. My ebony heartwood desk stands proudly in the center, littered with papers and a few trinkets. A Newton's cradle from my father, a gyroscope that I picked up in Greece, and a silver plaque with the Dantalion sigil shine brightly in the sun. Tasteful abstract paintings from the city's many renowned artists adorn the walls.
I am a wealthy man, and my office exudes luxury. Just the way I—and my interior designer—planned.
Approaching the windows, I reach for the heavy curtain stays. The hustle and bustle of the city down below has always soothed me, and I do enjoy watching the people scurry about on the sidewalks and in their cars. But for now, I need solitude.
With the curtains drawn, I settle into my chair and power on my computer. I've partitioned the hard drive—even if someone broke into my main profile, they'd never find any evidence of my newest obsession.
Melody.
The spitfire woman who tried to kill me. And nearly succeeded, I might add, if I didn't react so quickly. Roman and I carried her limp body into her pathetic little apartment. None of her neighbors batted an eye. Roman, of course, had an excuse at the ready, but it wasn't needed. The building itself was rather disgusting, but I've got a plan for that.
And I just couldn't help but leave her a token of my presence. The rose, a little splash of beauty in her fucked-up kitchen. Roman had busied himself with checking her vitals for the umpteenth time while I slipped away to her bathroom and scribbled a greeting on her shower door with my finger.
I know she's seen it, but I don't know her reaction. Terror? Confusion? Curiosity? The question swirled in my mind as I pulled up the feed from the discrete cameras I'd positioned around her home. One displayed a full view of her bed, another the living room and kitchen, and the last pointed directly at her doorstep.
Soon, I'll have her daily routine memorized like the back of my hand. But for now, I wait, and I watch.
Hours of video have already accrued, and I scrub through it quickly, searching for the moment she found my gift. Earlier this morning, she tumbled out of bed and took a quick shower before scurrying down the short hallway. She pulled her clothes on in a frenzy—I barely caught a glimpse of her body before it was completely covered again.
Something unpleasant roils in my gut, but I'm not sure what it could be. I shove the feeling down and keep watching.
My breath catches as she freezes on the screen. She found it.
"What the fuck?" Melody's whispered voice is barely audible as she stares at the rose. "Nope. Nope, nope, nope."
She shakes her head violently. I can almost see the shiver run down her spine. Sheknowssomeone was in her home. She picks it up and shoves the flower into her overflowing trash can, muttering to herself. All I can make out is "crazy".
Oh yes, Melody. Yes, you'll soon be crazy for me.
I smile as I pause the video. I've found my wife. And she'll give me an heir.
After spending a few hours learning everything my extensive resources can find about Melody, I quietly leave the office in Center City and make the drive over to her apartment building. Since it's soon to be my latest acquisition, I told Valencia, I should see it for myself. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Interestingly, I couldn't find much on my future wife. No social media. No news articles. Absolutely nothing. It's like she never existed. That is, until she popped up here in Philadelphia about six months ago, which I only discovered through the current leases of my new acquisition. Her full name is Melody Isabella Gutierrez, and she put her birth date as April 16th, 1992.
I believe it might be a lie. I could not find a Melody Isabella Gutierrez in any birth records, anywhere in the country, for the whole year. Ah, well, I'll learn all of her secrets directly from the source soon enough.
Pulling into the small parking lot, I double-check the cameras again, making sure Melody hasn't returned home yet. I've got just a few more adjustments to make with my camera angles.
