I make my way through the boxes, breathing harder now. High explosives? Why high explosives? What does Quentin need with high explosives?
Construction? No, that makes no sense, if he used them for construction he wouldn’t keep them in the basement, and that other thing was some kind of a weapon.
I think it was a grenade launcher.
I should leave. Now. Get out, Rose. This is too weird.
The stairs creak under my foot and I freeze, listening. There’s no sound but the happiness of children outside, faint music, and cheering. I take another few steps up, watching each step as I put my foot on it. They’re bare wood bolted together, like the stairs in my basement. There are two staircases, one at either end. One goes to the kitchen.
This one goes to the garage.
I push the door open lightly and watch for movement, expecting to see him inside waxing his car or something, but the big Impala sits there alone, dominating a full half of the garage.
Creeping out into the garage proper, I take a look around. There are two big, heavy safes, each taller than I am. More like vaults, really. It dawns on me as I touch them that I don’t need to open them to know what’s inside. These are gun safes.
I should leave. I should leave right now. I should not open the garage door and walk up into the kitchen.
I open the door and walk up into the kitchen.
It’s empty. I’m not sure what I’m expecting. What will Quentin do if he catches me in here? I can feel the walls closing in around me.
The kitchen is empty, I mean empty. Bare cupboards, no pots or pans, just a pile of canned food on the counter and a fridge with nothing inside but beer, bottles of bourbon, and what appears to be a half-eaten key lime pie.
As I close the fridge I hear something, a movement upstairs. It must be him. I should go. Really, I should get out right now, the way I came. I take a step toward the staircase and pull back.
Go home, Rose. There’s something going on here and it’s a lot bigger than you.
I creep back down into the garage, stopping to slow my breath. I can feel my heart pounding in my neck. I tug on the basement door, but it doesn’t budge.
Oh God.
It’s stuck or locked. I don’t know, but I need to get out. I head for the garage door. It’ll make a racket but it’s a door, and I can go.
Except, I can’t. The car is locked. I can see the remote inside, but that’s no use to me. There’s a switch on the wall but there’s a clear plastic panel over it, with a padlock. I don’t even know where to begin to look for the key.
What am I even doing here?
It doesn’t matter now. I can kick myself in the butt later. Having no other choice, I slip back into the kitchen, walking lightly, testing my footing so I don’t make a noise or let out a creak. The living room is still empty.
I make my way across. When I glance over my shoulder there’s no one behind me. I’ll just go through the front door, lock it, and pull it shut. No harm, no foul. Mrs. Campbell will probably see me coming out of the house, but to hell with her.
As I touch the doorknob, powerful arms snap closed around me, trapping mine against my sides. A hand closes roughly over my mouth, fingers digging into my cheek and jaw.
Quentin growls in my ear.
“What are you doing in here?”
“Mmmph!”
Gingerly he lets his hand off my mouth and grazes his thumb along my jaw.
“Answer me.”
“I was just… I don’t know. Let me go.”
His breath is hot on my neck. I feel his lips, then his teeth. He moves up and pinches my earlobe between his teeth. I jerk in his arms and squeak.
“I don’t want to let you go.”
Excitement floods through my body, mixing in a strange cocktail with fear.
“You’re shaking,” he says, his hand trailing over my stomach. “Are you scared of me?”
“No,” I lie.
“You should be,” he murmurs in my ear. “I am.”
“I didn’t see anything…”
He laughs softly, and his fingers stroke over my throat. It sends a flutter through my body and I go rigid, trying to hold still like a scared rabbit, wary of a stalking fox.
“You’re lying,” he says, very softly. “I know how to sniff out liars, Rose. I’m very, very good at it. Do you know how I know you’re lying?”
“How?”
“You just admitted it,” he whispers. I can almost feel him grinning.
“I didn’t—”
“Shhh.”
He cups my chin in his hand.
“I knew you were lying because you volunteered unnecessary information. It’s a very basic mistake. You learn these things when you study the art of interrogation.”
“Interrogation?”
“Asking questions,” he purrs in my ear, “sharply. I can make anyone tell me anything I need to know.”
“You’re scaring me, Quentin.”
“I know, and it’s turning you on. I can feel it here.”
He slips his hand between my legs, pushes his palm against me, and holds his hand there, soaking in the heat from my arousal. It is turning me on. I like it.
I like losing control, don’t I?
“What are you going to do to me?”
“What should I do with you? You were trespassing in my house.”