The single-story house faced the street one block over from where he'd parked. Though no one lived there, he approached the back porch with tightening muscles, ready to slip away at the first sign of life.
Three windows and a glass door broke up the monotony of weathered brick. Heavy-duty shades blocked light from escaping. The shades hadn't moved, not once, in the six months he'd been coming to Liv’s neighborhood. A lawn service maintained the small lot of grass, but there were no flowerbeds, no lawn furniture, no inhabitants.
His black hoodie and dark jeans blended with the backdrop of the unlit house as he checked the locks on the rear windows and door, looking for a disruption in the pattern, any indication that someone had moved in.
All clear, he approached the south side that would take him to the front porch and the bench that awaited him. As he rounded the corner, he dug his heels into the wet grass, flattening his body against the vacant house.
One of two windows on the house next door cast a warm glow between the foundations. His pulse sped up, and an excited warmth of energy swirled through his stomach. Liv lived next door to the abandoned house.
He crept toward her illuminated window. His crouched position below prevented a good look at the inside, but he knew it was her kitchen.
The dark window beside it drew his attention. Her bedroom. Was she in there now? Removing her clothes? Humming a seductive melody? He closed his eyes briefly as his dick pulsed against the tight confines of his jeans.
When he regained his focus, he edged around the band of light on the grass and removed two wireless microphones from the bag, following his nightly ritual. The high sensitivity mics penetrated glass and transmitted to his phone. A whole lot safer than bugging the inside of her house.
He powered them on and left them on Liv's brick windowsills. Camouflaged by shadows, he ducked across the yard between the houses, retreating from Liv's and slipping onto the front porch of the vacant house. He strode past the bench and reached a finger inside the porch lantern. The bulb he'd removed months ago hadn't been replaced. Good. With a suspended breath, he checked the lock on the door. The knob wobbled but didn't turn, as expected.
On his way back to the bench, he stopped at the wide picture window and leaned his cheek against it. At that angle, he could see a sliver of light along the bottom of the blackout shade. Always closed with the same millimeter glow.
Though the mail was addressed to Amber Rosenfeld, the only person who came and went was Zachary Kaufman. The Saddler's Tool Company employee arrived at noon on Tuesdays and Fridays—a simple inquiry at the tool store confirmed the man's identity and his schedule.
After watching him for months, Van was certain the moron was using the house to grow marijuana. Given his stupid smiles and flushed cheeks when he exited the house, he was toking the merchandise during his visits.
Who cared? As long as Zachary Kaufman didn't get busted, Van had an ideal place to squat.
Hidden from the street by overgrown shrubs, he reclined on the shadowed bench of a house where no one lived and looked to the right. The elevation of the porch put him at the perfect height to peer through the two windows on the side of the house next door. The opening in the foliage gave him a sliver of sight into Liv's life.
He connected ear buds to his phone and pressed one into his ear. A few minutes later, he cracked open a beer, lit a cigarette, and watched Liv's windows like the dirty voyeur he was.
The mic picked up indiscernible voices from deep within the house, and his heart skipped. He squashed the cigarette and concentrated on the sounds in the earpiece. Footsteps?
Liv's front door opened and a tall man with dark, shoulder-length hair strode down the driveway. Van leaned his head back, slouching deeper within the hood. It wasn't necessary. Ricky wouldn't have been able to see him through the foliage.
Good ol' Ricky. The second of seven slaves she'd delivered. Seven million dollars had been paid by seven buyers. Yet seven sold slaves flitted in and out of her house, carting side dishes for bar-b-que parties, drinking beer, and braiding her friggin’ hair as if she hadn't spent ten weeks beating the ever-loving shit out of them.
Van had discovered the depth of her deceit the night she'd shot him and left him. He'd driven to the police station, his shoulder throbbing like a motherfucker, and watched her walk out of the station and make contact with her first slave. Fuck, he'd never in a million fucking years guessed she'd been freeing the slaves after delivering them.