11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

IZEL

The cuffs bite into my wrists, making me second-guess my rash decision to try and escape. It had given me a brief respite from the suffocating presence of Lucas Brown, but now there’s Noah. He’s not like Lucas, not interested in small talk or even acknowledging my existence. He’s all business, and I can’t decide if that’s better or worse.

I almost miss the irritation of Lucas. At least he was doing something, even if it was just getting on my nerves. But with Noah, it’s like I’m invisible.

And then, my thoughts drift back to that damn kiss with Richard. It’s infuriating how it lingers in my mind. He had kissed me like no one ever had before, like I was more than just an object, like I was a person worth wanting. But all that was overshadowed by the fact that he put me in cuffs, and that’s something I can’t forgive.

I’ve felt this way before, the feeling of being trapped. But this time, it’s worse. I didn’t hate Richard until he cuffed me, and now, I hate him more than ever.

Just as I’m sinking deeper into my angry thoughts, Noah appears. He says something about lunch, and I’m not sure I even want to eat, but I don’t have much of a choice. He unlocks the cuffs, and while rubbing my sore wrists, I give him a pointedly annoyed look.

“You could have at least loosened them a bit.”

He doesn’t respond, just heads to the kitchen to grab us something to eat. I follow him reluctantly, my stomach growling despite my anger.

Noah puts together a couple of sandwiches, simple but decent enough. He sets one down in front of me and takes his lunch to the small table in the corner, where he’s already got a laptop set up. I sit across from him, chewing slowly.

He is focused on the screen, typing away with one hand while he takes bites with the other. It’s like he’s distracting himself.

“So, Noah,” I start, taking a bite of my sandwich, but the tomatoes threaten to tumble out. I catch them in my mouth just in time, avoiding an embarrassing mess. “Did you know that the percentage of men being serial killers is significantly higher than women?”

He looks up from his laptop, raises an eyebrow but says nothing. Encouraging.

“Yeah,” I continue, “I read somewhere that around 85% of serial killers are men. Isn't that wild? Makes you wonder why, right? Like, why men? What's stopping women from reaching the same level of... infamy”

“Come on, Izel. Everyone knows women don’t have it in them. It’s just not their nature.”

I roll my eyes, swallowing my bite. “Oh, really? You think women can’t be cold-blooded killers?”

“No, it’s not that,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “It’s just… women are usually more nurturing. It’s biological. They’re not wired the same way men are when it comes to violence.”

“Bullshit,” I scoff. “Women can be just as ruthless, if not more so, given the right motivation.”

Noah smirks, shaking his head. “Alright, I’ll bite. What’s this right motivation you’re talking about?”

“Revenge, survival, power—same reasons as men. But it’s more about being pushed to the edge. Men and women both snap, just in different ways.”

“I still think men are just more prone to it. Call it societal conditioning or whatever, but it’s like they’re more... inclined to violence.”

“Or maybe,” I counter, “it’s because men refuse to go to therapy.”

Noah sighs rubbing his temples. “Look, Izel, I get it. You're trying to be civil, maybe even trying to charm your way out of those cuffs for good. But I'm not in the mood for a discussion on serial killer psychology.”

He shakes his head, clearly done with the topic, and goes back to typing on his laptop with one hand and eating with another. I settle into a more comfortable silence.

“You know,” I say, watching him, “it’s not polite to work while eating.”

He barely glances up. “Got a lot to do,” he mutters.

I don’t answer to his dismissive tone. I finish my sandwich in silence. After lunch, Noah and I find ourselves sitting on the couch together. It’s not exactly a cozy situation, given the circumstances.

Noah is focused on a set of pictures spread out on the coffee table. The images show a knife. He’s studying it with an intensity that tells me it’s something important.

His phone buzzes on the table, vibrating loudly against the wood. He glances at the screen, then picks it up and taps the speakerphone button without thinking.

“Got anything on SteelSinner?” Richard’s voice comes through the speaker.

Prickles of anxiety ripple through me at the sound of that name.

Noah’s eyes dart to me, realizing too late that he shouldn’t be having this conversation in front of me. He quickly cuts off the speakerphone, his face tightening as he grips the phone in his hand. “Hang on a sec, Rick,” he says. He stands up and moves to the far side of the room, putting some distance between us.

But the room isn’t that big, and even though he’s being discreet, I can still hear him.

“The lead on SteelSinner? It’s a bust. I couldn’t find anything on the guy—no real name, no business address, nothing. I checked all the knife shops in the area, even the sketchy ones, but it’s like he doesn’t exist.”

I feel a scoff rise in my throat but swallow it back. Of course, SteelSinner would cover his tracks well. He has the resources to stay hidden, and he knows exactly how to use them.

Noah pauses, listening to whatever Richard is saying on the other end. “Yeah, I know. It doesn’t make sense. But I’m telling you, there’s nothing. If this guy’s real, he’s got to be the best at staying off the radar.”

He’s quiet for a moment, nodding at whatever Richard’s saying, though it’s clear he’s frustrated.

“Yeah, I’ll keep digging. Maybe I missed something, but...”

I can’t resist the temptation to peek at the photos, even though I know it’s probably not a great idea. As I do, my eyes catch the distinctive pattern of the wood and the way the splinters are formed. I mumble the name of the special kind of wood under my breath without really thinking.

Noah’s head snaps in my direction, and he disconnects the call regarding me with a curious expression. “How do you know that wood?”

I tense up, realizing I’ve probably said too much. But there’s no turning back now. I’ve unintentionally piqued his interest, and I need to come up with an explanation.

“It’s just... I used to do some woodworking as a hobby,” I reply casually even though my words dance around the truth, each syllable a careful maneuver to keep my thoughts from spilling out. “I’ve seen that type of wood before.”

“Woodworking, huh?” he says, settling back on the couch beside me. “Tell me more. What kind of wood are we looking at here?”

I shift uncomfortably on the couch. “It's snakewood. The pattern in the splinters is distinct, and the color is quite unique.”

“So, if you needed to get your hands on this wood, where would you find it?”

“Well, it’s not easy to come by. You’d have to know the right people or have a solid connection in the woodworking community.”

Noah narrows his eyes, clearly not buying my vague response. “Do you happen to know someone?”

I tilt my head, giving him a sly smile. “Maybe. Depends on whether or not you can get me out of these cuffs.”

“Or I could just throw you in prison. How about that?”

“You’re no less than the criminals you chase. They threaten to kill, and you threaten to imprison. Same difference.”

He glares at me. “Give me a name.”

I let the silence stretch for a moment, enjoying the power shift. Then I sigh dramatically, rolling my eyes. “Charles Cooper. He’s the guy you’re looking for.”

“You’re sure?”

I shrug nonchalantly. “As sure as I can be, considering my current... circumstances.”

He watches me for a moment, as though weighing whether he should believe me. Finally, he stands up, reaching for his phone. “We’ll see if you’re telling the truth.”

I return to sulking. I know I’ve bought myself some time, but I’ll need more than that to get out of here. I can tell he’s not entirely satisfied with my vague explanation. But he doesn’t press the issue further.

As the afternoon goes on, a reminder pops into my head like a loud alarm. I’ve got a deadline, and pissing off my one reliable client is the last thing I need.

I turn to Noah and mutter under my breath, “I need my phone. I’ve got work to do.”

Noah doesn’t respond immediately. He’s engrossed in the investigation, focused on the pictures and the potential lead I’ve inadvertently given him. But after a moment, he reaches for his phone and makes a call. I can only hear his side of the conversation.

“Richard, she needs her phone. Yes, I’ll keep an eye on her. Right. Understood.”

Noah hangs up and looks at me. “Richard said you can have your phone, but you stay with me. No funny business.”

My head dips in agreement, though I can feel resentment rising, boiling at the boundaries closing in around me. It’s not something I’m used to, and it’s not something I particularly like. But I have no choice in the matter, and that only fuels my frustration.

I find myself fiddling with my phone, drafting emails to my clients about the possible delay in their projects. It’s a headache I didn’t need, but it’s better than losing clients altogether. I try to focus on the task at hand.

To take a break from the email drafts, I start playing a game on my phone. It’s a mindless distraction, something to occupy my thoughts and drown out the frustration. As I dive into the game, I notice there’s a text communication element, and my phone chimes with a message.

Did I forget to mention this game also helps me hide my connections to the people I’d rather not have linked to me?

“Are you okay?” the message reads.

I glance at Noah, who’s busy working on his laptop, which gives me a free pass to respond without prying eyes. I reply with a simple “Yes,” not wanting to reveal too much.

UNKNOWN: Are they watching you?

Me: Yeah, always.

UNKNOWN: Isn’t it weird that Charles got an inquiry about snakewood from a guy named Noah who also happens to be your watchdog for the day.

Me: I don’t know anything about it.

UNKNOWN: You know how Charles is. He is being paranoid. He thinks someone’s setting him up.

Me: It’s not me! I swear, I have no clue about it.

UNKNOWN: If you’re lying, you’re digging your own grave. If Charles gets cornered, he might spill everything. And I mean everything.

Me: What do you mean by everything?

UNKNOWN: Everything you’ve been running from. And if he talks, you’re not just a witness. You’re the target.

I look up from my phone and glance at Noah. How much of an idiot is this guy? Do these people not know how to be discreet? I stifle a sigh and go back to typing a response. I’m in the middle of typing a response when the front door swings open, and I quickly close the app on my phone. Richard walks in accompanied by a fiery redhead from the crime scene.

I watch as they walk in the direction of Noah, who’s busy working on his laptop. Richard doesn’t even spare a glance in my direction, and it’s a weird feeling. For some reason, I expected him to at least acknowledge my presence. But he outright ignores me.

Their conversation continues, and I overhear Richard mentioning the Slasher case, and Noah does that little eye thing that tells me he’s about to reveal something important. I remain quiet on the couch, trying not to draw attention to myself.

But it doesn’t take long for Richard to finally notice me. His eyes narrow in annoyance, and for a fleeting moment, I can almost see the anger in his expression. The guy is never content with his life, is he?

He points at me. “Why the hell are you not wearing pants?”

I shrug nonchalantly, offering a response that’s become all too familiar during our interactions. “I told you, I don’t wear them.”

There’s a beat of awkward silence, and I can feel the tension in the room ratchet up even higher. I’m not sure what’s worse – the fact that I’m stuck here, half-clothed and treated like a nuisance, or the way Richard’s mere presence manages to get under my skin. This idiotic mess of a situation isn’t doing any wonders for my patience.