Page 65 of Make Me Hunt
Me: On it.
Fuck. Now I have to get her to talk first.
I take off my disguise, informing my new makeup artist that he needs to be on call tomorrow. I can’t spend a whole day like this, and I sure as hell can’t go after Cynthia like this.
I drive to the address 404 gave me. It’s an apartment building, a few streets away from where I live.
There’s a flower shop across the street, so I go inside and get a bouquet. Then go back to the car to grab a cap I tossed onto the backseat a few days ago, along with a clipboard I’ve had lying around from when I worked at the bar. It’s got some oldstock tables printed on the papers, but I’m not worried. Nobody checks the delivery guy’s paperwork. They just sign—and no woman would ever refuse flowers. I’ll just pretend to be the one delivering them.
I head straight up to her apartment, hoping to catch a glimpse, but I ring the doorbell. Apparently, no one is home.
Time to switch tactics, so I wait in the car for her to return. She only does that a couple of hours later. And she’s not alone. She’s with a man—well built, six-foot-three, dark hair, and chocolate skin. Come to think of it, I think I’ve seen him around. I check the file on my phone again and recognize him from one of the OnlyFans pictures. He’s the one she’s beencreatingsome of her content with.
That’s what they call them, right,content creators?
The thought almost makes me laugh, but realizing the flower thing won’t work just pisses me off.
I wait in my car until it’s almost dark outside, losing my patience, thinking of ways to get in. But it’s too risky to take her on in her apartment. It could get too noisy, especially since she’s not alone.
My luck suddenly turns, and she leaves with the man, like they’re in a hurry. They get into a red car that looks like hers, but he’s driving, which tells me I won’t be getting rid of him anytime soon.
Fuck my life.
I follow them right outside of town, where they stop in front of a house that looks abandoned. The guy checks the area so that everything is safe, then shows her inside.
There are a few other houses down the street, but most of them look abandoned, too, and the rest have bars at the windows to keep people out. This neighborhood’s crawling with junkies and hookers, so no wonder they’ve picked a place where they wouldn’t stand out.
This is my best chance to move. No time to screw around.
I peek through the window. They’re going for the bedroom, and judging by the lights he’s setting, I’m guessing they’re about to film.
I don’t want to witness this, but it looks like I don’t have a choice.
I slip inside the house through the back door, which, even if it’s locked, doesn’t stand a chance against me. The wood’s so rotten I could kick it down, but that would make too much noise. So, I just pick the lock instead, in less than twenty seconds.
Keeping my gun tightly in hand, I advance down the hallway and into the living room.
The TV’s on. Strangely enough, it’s on a kids' channel, but I ignore it and focus on their location.
It’s only then that I hear it. “Mommy?” The soft voice scares the living shit out of me.
I almost scream. I don’t even know how I find the strength to keep my calm, but as soon as I identify where the voice is coming from, I realize it’s a little boy. He can’t be older than six, but I checked Cynthia’s file, and shedoesn’thave kids. Besides, his light red hair and the small freckles spread across his face tell me he can’t be related to her.
“Oh… you’re not my mommy,” he says, with deep disappointment in his voice, while I gesture to him to stay quiet.
“Come here,” I whisper, motioning him closer so I stay out of sight in case any of them walk in. Though I doubt that’ll happen, because I can already hear moans spilling from the bedroom, the door creaked open, even if there’s a damn kid in the house.
I’ve never considered myself to have a friendly face, but it sure beats that tramp, Cynthia. And her boyfriend. The kid walks over to me like I’m his last hope in this world.
That breaks my fucking heart. Kids are supposed to be fearful, scared of strangers, not run to them with open arms.
And yet he looks at me like I’m his fucking guardian angel.
“What’s your name?” I ask as quietly as I can, taking in how thin the little boy is.
“Samuel James Mitchell,” he answers—full name and all, like he’s in prep school roll call.
“Okay, Sam. I can call you Sam, right?”
