Chapter 2
Pudding suddenly wobbled a couple of times, his legs gave out, and he slumped down onto the cold tiles.
I dropped to my knees in a panic, reaching out to see if he was still breathing.
His breathing was barely noticeable. His heartbeat was so faint I could hardly feel it. He was out cold, lost in an unnaturally deep sleep.
This wasn't some nutritional supplement.
It was a powerful sedative, strong enough to paralyze a large mammal instantly.
For ten years, I'd been taking this pill that robbed me of any ability to resist every day.
A bone-deep chill shot up from my feet to the top of my head, and I felt a wave of dread wash over me.
I immediately turned my head toward the half-open bedroom door.
Moonlight seeped through the gap in the curtains, casting a ghostly glow over the double bed.
Willow was lying on her side, her breathing steady, as if she were sound asleep.
But I could clearly see that her eyes, which should have been dim and unfocused from her condition, were wide open.
In the cold moonlight, those eyes were sharp and clear, staring straight at the medicine I was hiding between my fingers.
The next morning, sunlight bathed the whole town in its usual warmth.
Pushing down the fear from last night, I pretended nothing had happened, picked up the trash bag, and pushed open the front door.
The crisp morning air did nothing to lift the heaviness in my heart.
As I walked toward the trash can at the corner, I caught a glimpse of Arthur Jackson, the retired guy from across the street, out of the corner of my eye.
He was hiding behind the neatly trimmed bushes.
He was holding a compact DSLR camera.
The lens wasn't pointed at the scenery, but at the trash bag in my hand, especially zeroing in on the cold pizza I'd tossed out last night.
The shutter click sounded especially grating in the stillness of the morning.
My grip on the trash bag tightened, my knuckles audibly popping.
Arthur always had a smile and a plate of homemade cookies for me, couldn't have asked for a nicer neighbor.
I wondered why he was spying on me.
I pretended not to see him, tossed the trash bag into the bin, and made a beeline back to the house.
Once the door was locked and every curtain drawn tight, I holed up in the storage room, the one with no windows, just walls to hide behind.
I pulled out the business card and dialed the number on it.
The phone rang just once before someone picked up.
"Hello, Mr. Marty Bell," a sweet voice answered.
The operator's voice was sugary sweet, and she nailed my alias perfectly, didn't miss a beat.
I swallowed hard, my voice low and tense as I demanded, "Who are you people? What do you want?"
"Mr. Bell, you're such a joker."
The operator let out a soft chuckle.
"Your family has renewed your premium package. We'll continue to provide you with the finest captive environment. Enjoy your stay."
The line went dead.
Those words hit me like a sledgehammer, slamming into my nerves.
I forced myself back into the living room, my stomach in knots and cold sweat soaking my back.
I had to figure out what else this house was hiding from me.
Pretending I was just cleaning up, I fished out the UV flashlight from the toolbox, the one for checking pipe leaks.
I turned off the bedroom lights and hit the switch.
The ghostly blue light swept across the floor.
I figured I'd just see some ordinary dust or maybe a water stain.
But when the beam swept under the bed, my breath froze.
Countless glowing splotches lit up under the UV light, like strange flowers blooming.
That was the Luminol reaction.
Evidence left behind after a huge amount of blood had been cleaned up.
It wasn't just under the bed. There were blood traces in the cracks of the closet, smeared along the edges of the carpet, and even streaked on the baseboards in the corners.
The whole bedroom lit up with bloodstains.
I collapsed to the floor, my hands shaking uncontrollably.
This wasn't some cozy love nest. It was a slaughterhouse.
I wondered whose blood this belonged to.
I ran my hands over myself, aside from that so-called "eczema," I didn't have a single real injury.
Just then, the key turned in the front door lock.
I quickly switched off the UV light and shoved it between the sofa cushions.
Willow came home early today.
She pushed the door open, her face beaming with a bright smile, as if she wasn't the same person who'd stared at me so coldly last night.
"Honey, look who I brought home," she said.
She turned to the side, making room for the man behind her.
My eyes went wide.
It was the delivery guy.
Today, he was dressed in a gray work uniform, holding a pair of pruning shears.
"This is Goodwin Trivett, the gardener I just hired to help with the lawn."
Willow smiled as she introduced him, her gaze gentle as she turned to me.
"You've been under the weather lately, so let him handle the heavy lifting," she added.
Goodwin tipped his hat to me, flashing a knowing smile.
"Pleasure to be of service, Mr. Bell," he said.
I stood there, stiff as a board, watching them put on their little show together, the suffocating pressure squeezing my throat.
The whole neighborhood and the whole house felt like eyes were on me, watching my every move.
That afternoon, Goodwin was out in the yard, pruning the rosebushes.