Wyatt-1(Lane Brothers, Book 1)
WYATT
Lane Brothers, Book 1
Kristina Weaver
Chapter One
Ellie
My morning started just like any other morning for the last four years. I woke up at six, showered, styled my hair, did my makeup, and dressed in my very plain uniform consisting of a pencil skirt, silk blouse, and low heels.
Breakfast was the same, as well—granola and herbal tea (half a teaspoon of sugar). Then I fed Goofball, my cat and the only living creature I allow into my inner space.
Routine. Routine. Routine. That’s how I live my life and I never waver from it. I walk out of my apartment every morning at exactly six forty-five, and then I hustled myself the three and a half blocks to the little accounting firm where I’m a lower-level flunky.
I usually get there in fifteen minutes after stopping in at Susie’s Diner for a cup of coffee that I never drink but has become one of my habits, and then I’m at my desk, ready to do my job for the next eight hours before going home and doing the same things I do every night.
I’m a homebody now, who knits, bakes, and does anything that won’t require leaving my apartment but for the midweek grocery-shopping trip.
I have no friends. No family. Above all, I never allow myself to wish I did, because then I risk going back to that dark time when I’d almost not made it through.
Four years of this and I’ve been successful at becoming a ghost, just the way I planned it. Just the way I want it.
That’s all I’ve striven for in four years. To become so invisible that the people around me would reply “who?” when asked about Eloise Carver.
I’m alive and healthy and whole, mostly, but I don’t want to be memorable to a single soul, not since I survived and realized that I got hurt because I made myself too visible to that sicko.
You would think that after all my hard work, after following my routine so that the moment an anomaly popped up I would recognize it, I’d be safe and aware that danger was near.
I would know and have the chance to run.
I didn’t see a thing, or notice the fact that I was being followed and watched for weeks. All I knew was that I bought coffee I never drank because I used those five minutes in the diner to surreptitiously scan the street outside for any strangers I don’t recognize, people who never walk that stretch of the quiet street in the small town of Banes, Mississippi.
That’s why I’m so pissed at myself right now and why the fear hasn’t crippled me yet.
More importantly, that is why when I wake up tied to a bed, my body bare and open, defenceless, I don’t do the stupid thing and scream my head off.
No, I do what my therapist back in Philly taught me to do; I breathe and center myself before twisting my head and scanning the room.
I’m alone, but I knew that the minute my brain switched back on and I came fully awake. I have the uncanny ability to feel when someone is near after four years of self-imposed solitude, and I know immediately that no one is near.
Besides the faint lingering scent of expensive aftershave, the room is empty except for a huge king-size bed that I’m strapped to and a glass of water on the bedside table.
Nothing stands out. In fact, the room looks similar to my own. It’s bare, stark white, and spotlessly clean.
My perusal lasts a matter of maybe two minutes, the place is so empty, and I start focusing on my bindings, testing the strength and give in the silken ties around my wrists and ankles.
While they’re soft and designed not to cut into my skin, they’re strong and tied tight enough that no amount of pulling makes a difference. Even twisting onto my stomach I can’t reach anything but the dark wood of the headboard and the chains attached to the restraints.
A test of my ankle bindings proves just as futile, and I flop back down after several minutes of struggling against them, exhausted and for the first time unable to stem the flood of fear that’s had me in its grip since waking.
I want to scream now and allow the tears free reign. Instead, I lie still, regulate my breathing as I’ve been taught, and try to recall the moment I slipped up.
Okay, Ellie, think. What did you do?
That’s the problem, I realize a moment later. I did everything just as usual. I hit the pavement at six forty-five and walked three feet behind Joe, the mechanic, as I always do. Susie’s Diner had been the same, the usual patrons dropping in for their morning orders, and I’d even scanned the street like I usually do and seen only little old Moseby shuffling along with her dog.
Work was the same as any other day, and I hadn’t even left to grab a sandwich like I usually do, thanks to my workload doubling when that Janine girl across from my cubicle called in sick.
No lunch, no stopping till five, on the dot, and then I’d walked home and locked myself in my apartment at exactly five thirty. The only variation I’d allowed was to give Goofball a tin of tuna for dinner instead of her usual cat food.
Lane Brothers, Book 1
Kristina Weaver
Chapter One
Ellie
My morning started just like any other morning for the last four years. I woke up at six, showered, styled my hair, did my makeup, and dressed in my very plain uniform consisting of a pencil skirt, silk blouse, and low heels.
Breakfast was the same, as well—granola and herbal tea (half a teaspoon of sugar). Then I fed Goofball, my cat and the only living creature I allow into my inner space.
Routine. Routine. Routine. That’s how I live my life and I never waver from it. I walk out of my apartment every morning at exactly six forty-five, and then I hustled myself the three and a half blocks to the little accounting firm where I’m a lower-level flunky.
I usually get there in fifteen minutes after stopping in at Susie’s Diner for a cup of coffee that I never drink but has become one of my habits, and then I’m at my desk, ready to do my job for the next eight hours before going home and doing the same things I do every night.
I’m a homebody now, who knits, bakes, and does anything that won’t require leaving my apartment but for the midweek grocery-shopping trip.
I have no friends. No family. Above all, I never allow myself to wish I did, because then I risk going back to that dark time when I’d almost not made it through.
Four years of this and I’ve been successful at becoming a ghost, just the way I planned it. Just the way I want it.
That’s all I’ve striven for in four years. To become so invisible that the people around me would reply “who?” when asked about Eloise Carver.
I’m alive and healthy and whole, mostly, but I don’t want to be memorable to a single soul, not since I survived and realized that I got hurt because I made myself too visible to that sicko.
You would think that after all my hard work, after following my routine so that the moment an anomaly popped up I would recognize it, I’d be safe and aware that danger was near.
I would know and have the chance to run.
I didn’t see a thing, or notice the fact that I was being followed and watched for weeks. All I knew was that I bought coffee I never drank because I used those five minutes in the diner to surreptitiously scan the street outside for any strangers I don’t recognize, people who never walk that stretch of the quiet street in the small town of Banes, Mississippi.
That’s why I’m so pissed at myself right now and why the fear hasn’t crippled me yet.
More importantly, that is why when I wake up tied to a bed, my body bare and open, defenceless, I don’t do the stupid thing and scream my head off.
No, I do what my therapist back in Philly taught me to do; I breathe and center myself before twisting my head and scanning the room.
I’m alone, but I knew that the minute my brain switched back on and I came fully awake. I have the uncanny ability to feel when someone is near after four years of self-imposed solitude, and I know immediately that no one is near.
Besides the faint lingering scent of expensive aftershave, the room is empty except for a huge king-size bed that I’m strapped to and a glass of water on the bedside table.
Nothing stands out. In fact, the room looks similar to my own. It’s bare, stark white, and spotlessly clean.
My perusal lasts a matter of maybe two minutes, the place is so empty, and I start focusing on my bindings, testing the strength and give in the silken ties around my wrists and ankles.
While they’re soft and designed not to cut into my skin, they’re strong and tied tight enough that no amount of pulling makes a difference. Even twisting onto my stomach I can’t reach anything but the dark wood of the headboard and the chains attached to the restraints.
A test of my ankle bindings proves just as futile, and I flop back down after several minutes of struggling against them, exhausted and for the first time unable to stem the flood of fear that’s had me in its grip since waking.
I want to scream now and allow the tears free reign. Instead, I lie still, regulate my breathing as I’ve been taught, and try to recall the moment I slipped up.
Okay, Ellie, think. What did you do?
That’s the problem, I realize a moment later. I did everything just as usual. I hit the pavement at six forty-five and walked three feet behind Joe, the mechanic, as I always do. Susie’s Diner had been the same, the usual patrons dropping in for their morning orders, and I’d even scanned the street like I usually do and seen only little old Moseby shuffling along with her dog.
Work was the same as any other day, and I hadn’t even left to grab a sandwich like I usually do, thanks to my workload doubling when that Janine girl across from my cubicle called in sick.
No lunch, no stopping till five, on the dot, and then I’d walked home and locked myself in my apartment at exactly five thirty. The only variation I’d allowed was to give Goofball a tin of tuna for dinner instead of her usual cat food.