Chapter 13

Minnie An’yan.

I stare at the computer screen pensively.

Zero hits.

There’s no one with her name on the face of the earth. No birth records, no foster home records as she claimed, and certainly no prison records.

For all intents and purposes, Minnie An’yan doesn’t exist.

Either that or she gave me a fake name. And that begs the question: what is she hiding?

Unable to find anything on the name she’s given me, I decide to try the police database. I log in some of her characteristics and narrow the search down to the surrounding area. If she’s given me a fake name, then she must have something to hide. And the best place to start is with police records.

The program registers my criteria and starts the search. I tap my finger on my desk as I await the results.

Normally, finding out about such a deception would have me raging. I’ve been living with this little heathen for almost two weeks now. Weeks of cohabitating with someone who lied about who they are. That in itself should get me riled up enough to add her on my murder list—again. Especially since she’s barged into my life, I’ve barely done any real work.

All I’ve done is sit in front of my computer and watch the house feed or do impromptu walks through the house to get a glimpse of her, then get flustered when I get caught staring.

Why am I getting fucking flustered? It’s my house. I’m allowed to walk around my house, no?

The mere fact that she’s made a mockery of my well-crafted routine and has reduced my productivity to zero should have me ready to murder her on the spot. Instead, I only find myself more intrigued by her and the secrets she hides.

She’s an enigma. And I’ve never been able to back off from an unsolved puzzle, no matter how difficult it might seem.

Odd, isn’t it?

I’ve gotten so used to getting rid of everything that inconveniences me that it’s absolutely mind-blowing that Minnie not only still lives with me, but that she enjoys a lot of privileges even when she breaks my rigid rules.

Yes, she can clean. And oh, can the girl cook. But other than that, she’s a disaster waiting to occur with her clumsiness.

Just the other day, I was walking through the kitchen—for no other reason than to check up on her cooking, of course, and perhaps find out what her secret to those delicious dishes really is. The little klutz got startled by my presence and cut her finger.

I stood there in shock, not knowing whether to tell her off for contaminating the meat, or lick the blood off her finger and tell her I’ll make it better.

Ludicrous. I know.

In the end, I went with a mix of the two. I chastised her for not paying attention and contaminating my food and my kitchen, while gently holding her finger and dabbing it with disinfectant. Then, of course, I bandaged it up so she wouldn’t contaminate anything else.

It may have taken me the better part of an hour to get it right. I know how to separate body parts, not how to put them together. But eventually, after finishing up an entire box of bandages, I managed to do a decent job.

On the bright side, I got a little taste of her blood, though I doubt she realized it.

Oh, fuck. I sound like a goddamn creep.

But it was there, leaking out of her cut, free for the taking.

What’s a man to do when the opportunity arises right in front of him?

Besides, wasn’t she the one who said blood was hot? I’m sure she wouldn’t mind. If she does bring it up at any point, I’ll tell her it’s rent.

I smile to myself at that particular memory. Though I always avoid contact with bodily fluids, the redness of her blood had been quite a hypnotizing sight. A dark red bordering on burgundy, it had been unlike anything I’ve ever seen. And God, had it been sweet.

I’m almost ashamed to admit how sweet and potent it had been.

For someone who’s never had a vice before—bar murder and compulsive cleaning—this looked very much like the beginning of a dangerous addiction.

I don’t know how I wrenched myself away from her long enough to fumble with the bandage, or how she didn’t notice the way my attention was clearly somewhere else. But in the end, I managed to disguise my growing desire with another rude comment—my M.O. at this point—which of course, she didn’t appreciate.

I expected at least some thank you. Perhaps another kiss on the cheek, not that I enjoyed the first one that much. But it should be common sense, no? I patched her up. I deserve at least something in return.

She only glared at me, muttered something under her breath, then proceeded to ignore me while she continued cooking.

Because she’s still mad at me.

That little heathen can certainly hold a grudge.

Things seemed to get better when she spoke to me in the basement, but after that, she went back to ignoring me.

I wonder if she’s worried I might replace her with someone else. She’s been making fewer mistakes in her tasks and it’s obvious she’s been putting more effort into her cleaning. Hell, lately I’ve been nothing short of impressed with her work ethic and the number of hours she dedicates to cleaning everything according to my instructions sheet. And for someone like me, it’s hard to be impressed about anything, let alone cleaning.

Perhaps she was worried I’d sack her. Though I wish it would have been jealousy that prompted her to be so mad about the basement, the more I think about it, the more I’m sure it’s her being worried about her position.

She wants security, I can tell. But surely she’d realize that the best way to get in my good graces is to actually talk to me. Every day, I can count on two hands the amount of words she directs toward me.

Is it any wonder that I’ve resorted to surreptitiously following her around the house? Or that I’ve become glued to my computer screen to see what she’s doing when I’m not around?

I think not.

But by not speaking to me, she’s only making me more intrigued.

Fuck. I’m dying of curiosity.

The computer releases a loud beep, and a list of matches appears on the screen. There are over a dozen results that match her physical description, but I can easily filter through them based on the mug shots.

And then I finally find her.

Her identity is unknown. She’s listed as Jane Doe and a person of interest in a number of criminal proceedings from the past couple of weeks.

The criminal cases range from petty theft to assault and they’re all in different jurisdictions. But she’s only on the list of potential witnesses.

Interesting.

I click on the first case, which is that of theft from a convenience store a few towns over from where I live. The case description notes that someone entered the convenience store at 10:00 p.m. and stole a week’s worth of food and some Christmas decorations. But the report highlighted that a certain brand of chocolate cookies was stolen in unusual quantities amounting to over five hundred dollars in losses. The cashier could not remember who it was that came inside to steal, and the CCTV cameras malfunctioned for a short period of time—exactly when the theft occurred.

The only footage is that of before and after the incident, and a girl fitting Minnie’s description is seen entering the store shortly before the cameras malfunctioned, and she exited sometime before they started working again. For that reason, the police are looking into her as a potential witness to whoever had robbed the place.

Hmm.

I click on the footage from the outside of the convenience store.

It’s night. It’s snowing heavily, and the ground in front of the convenience store is covered in ice. The time stamp shows the date as two and a half weeks ago. It’s 9:55 p.m. when Minnie appears in the frame. There are a few other people in the parking lot, but they seem to be departing the store.

I stop the video, my eyes growing wide with horror.

If when I found her I thought her mad for being so scantily dressed in that freezing weather, what she’s wearing in the video is much worse. Or, rather, I should say what she is not wearing. She has on a thin layer of what looks to be like a shift. She’s barefoot. Her hair is long, almost reaching her ankles. She must have cut half of it between then and when I found her.

I frown. This girl… She really knows how to get on someone’s nerves.

How the fuck does she go around in freezing temperatures wearing only a thin layer of material and no shoes?

She doesn’t seem cold, either. There’s nothing indicative of it in her body language. There’s no huddling or holding her arms close to her body. She appears perfectly fine.

She enters the store.

I quickly click on the second video—the one from inside. It captures her entering the store, but as she looks up, almost directly at the camera, the footage becomes unintelligible. Static appears on the screen, and it doesn’t stop until ten minutes later, when the video refreshes. The cashier is at his post, looking bewildered. There’s no trace of Minnie.

I narrow my eyes. This is…intriguing.

The next case happened a few days after, in another town. This was outside a small clothing shop. Three items were stolen from it. A pair of jeans, a shirt, and a pair of slides.

My cheek twitches.

The person fitting Minnie’s description was seen around the store at night, but once more, the cameras malfunctioned. This time, they didn’t catch her entering or exiting the store, so they only want to question her if she saw anything.

Since these are all small-town cases of petty theft, there isn’t much urgency. In fact, I’d be willing to bet they’re not even trying that hard to find her.

The third case is the most interesting, though.

Three men were assaulted in front of a movie theater. Once more, the same pattern emerges. The cameras outside the movie theater had malfunctioned exactly when the incident took place. More interestingly, though, none of the men could remember exactly what happened to them. They just recalled spotting a pretty young woman with dark hair and dark eyes and that was the last thing they remembered.

One of the men had both of his arms broken.

The second had multiple lesions, broken bones, and had to be put in neck braces.

The third had his head repeatedly banged against a hard surface, which resulted in intracranial pressure and required immediate surgery.

All were said to make a full recovery.

This time, the police seem more involved. It isn’t just stolen goods. Three burly men were put in the hospital.

I click on the video, and there are very few snippets of Minnie, always walking a distance away from the movie theater. But as I read more through the report, I find out that the CCTV inside the location had been malfunctioning for two weeks straight and always at night.

I tap my finger against my chin.

Cold facts are my specialty. They don’t lie. And in this case, I’m sure the person in the videos is Minnie. But more than that, I’m also sure that she’s the one who somehow got the cameras to malfunction. She did it here too, didn’t she? And multiple times too.

Opening my own camera feed, I write a quick code to scan for any static in the last two weeks.

Just as I expected, there are numerous instances throughout the day when the camera stops recording. It’s not just one isolated incident. It’s tens, if not hundreds.

I’ll be damned.

She likes sweet things. When she broke into the first store, she stole a bunch of packs of chocolate cookies. When she broke into the second place, she stole the clothes she was wearing when I first met her. And in the third case…

She couldn’t have beat those men up, that’s for sure.

But her frequent sightings around the movie theater, especially at night when the cameras wouldn’t record tell me one thing—she was sleeping in the movie theater.

But these are just a few cases in which she happened to be named a person of interest because she happened to be nearby. Who knows how many more times she did this before and was never caught on camera? She’s been living on the streets for a long time by her own admission.

A smile spreads up my lips.

My little heathen is smart. Very, very smart. And potentially a criminal.

And while she lied about her identity and her past, I’m not even mad. If she can hack into CCTV feeds like that, then she must be a hell of a hacker.

Enthusiasm bubbles inside of me.

I’ve never felt like this before. Like I might finally have an equal—someone I could go up against but also share my thoughts with. Someone who would understand.

Ah, but the things we could do together… The chaos we could create…

Minnie, Minnie. My lovely little liar.

You’re lucky I’ve developed a fondness for your brand of deceit—and your unmatched cooking skills.

Now I just need to lure her in until she reveals everything by herself. After all, what’s the fun in confronting her when the chase will prove to be so much more exciting?

Yet until then, I’ll have to throw my mother off her trail. That wretched dinner is in just two days, and I have no doubt she’ll ask Minnie all sorts of questions which she’ll then go on to try to corroborate.

My mother might be the more sentimental of the two of us, but she’s just as careful and shrewd as I am.

After closing my computer, I head downstairs.

Minnie is in the kitchen preparing lunch.

As soon as I step inside, the mouthwatering scent hits my nostrils and I gulp down.

I don’t know what the hell she puts in those dishes of hers, but after eating her food for almost two weeks, I might even believe her when she says it’s magic.

I can’t explain it otherwise. Every single thing she’s made has been perfect. It’s gotten to the point that I got rid of the recipe sheet I gave her on the first day and instead instructed her to cook whatever she wants.

In fact, maybe it is magic because the only explanation for my obsession with her entire persona is that she bewitched me. How else can I justify my unnatural interest in all things her? How else can I justify this change in my behavior that’s absolutely unprecedented?

“What are you making?”

She doesn’t turn to look at me. Her attention is on the stove as she watches the sauce simmer.

“Lentil curry,” she answers in a dull voice.

I suppose the first thing I need to do before she reveals her true self to me is to get back into her good graces. And I think I know just the thing that might…sweeten her a little—literally.

“Is it done?”

“In five minutes. But it will have to cool down,” she mentions, still not looking at me.

I wait the requisite five minutes. When she turns off the stove, I tell her.

“Come.”

That’s when she finally turns.

It’s been a few hours since I made contact with those big eyes of hers, but every time is like the first time. They’re so striking, it’s impossible not to be shaken by the sight of them.

If in the beginning I would have said she was cute, perhaps pretty, now that I know more about her—and I’ve tasted her food—I can confidently say she is…stunning.

I stare at her, salivating worse than I did five minutes ago when I got a whiff of the curry.

But this new information showed me a new side of her. One that I’m looking forward to exploring more.

Minnie takes off her apron, folds it, and drapes it over a chair. She follows behind me and asks, “Where are we going?”

“You’re going to put on some nice clothes,” I instruct.

“Why?” She stops in the middle of the hallway, her hands on her hips as she glares at me.

For some reason, this mutinous glare of hers has grown on me. It’s quite…cute. And although I don’t like the way she always ignores me, I have to admit she’s damn cute when she’s angry—not that I want to anger her more. On the contrary. From now on, operation make Minnie happy is in motion.

“We’re going to grab some dessert.”

Her eyes light up despite the fact that she tries to curb her excitement.

Aha, I was right. Sweet things are the way to her heart.

“Dessert?” she repeats, licking her lips.

“Yes. There’s a really good cookie shop in the next town over. We’ll grab some and come back to eat.” Not that I would know. But a quick search put me on the right path. And for once, I’ll even indulge in the sin of chocolate—as long as she indulges with me, too.

She smacks her lips together and I can already see the cookie signs reflected in her eyes.

“I suppose that’s a good idea. We do need dessert,” she murmurs. She’s trying not to seem too eager, but I know she’s probably already tasting that sweetness.

She dashes to her room and in less than ten minutes, she’s back downstairs, dressed and ready to go.

I smile to myself.

So far, she hasn’t really had the chance to wear the new clothes she got. We haven’t left the house since.

She’s wearing a pair of dark jeans and a cream cashmere sweater, together with her platform sneakers. As we head to the garage, she puts her coat on and places a long scarf haphazardly around her neck.

I stop her.

“Let me,” I murmur as I take hold of the scarf, wrapping it around her neck and tying it neatly in front of her.

She blinks fast, but as my eyes meet hers, she averts her gaze. A blush creeps up her cheeks.

“Let’s go,” she mumbles under her breath as she all but runs to the car.

We get in the car and I start driving.

It’s been a while since I’ve been in such close quarters with her, and I find the air growing hotter and threatening to suffocate me. Especially with this deafening silence.

Minnie is looking out the window, ignoring me.

We’re a few miles away from the house when I clear my throat.

“I got you something,” I add, feeling rather uncertain.

She turns, raising her brows at me.

Damn, she’s pretty.

I stare at her for a moment, forgetting my train of thought.

“What?” she asks.

I take a deep breath.

Don’t screw this up, Marlowe.

“Open that compartment,” I tell her and motion to the compartment in front of her.

She does as told and fishes a small red bag from inside.

She frowns.

“Look inside,” I add.

She slowly pulls on the white ribbon at the top and takes out the perfume box.

I’d ordered that for her days ago but never found the perfect moment to give it to her since she’s barely been acknowledging my existence.

I had been planning to give it to her before the dinner with my mother, but I suppose now it’s a good time too.

“It’s a perfume,” I feel compelled to mention when she’s just staring at the box.

She blinks, wets her lips, and then finally speaks.

I prepare myself for that thank you I’ve been waiting to hear from her lips.

“I’ve been washing daily, as per your rules,” she says.

“I know but?—”

“If this is your way of telling me I still smell, then no, thank you,” she grumbles. Before I can say anything else, she places the box back in the bag and stuffs it in the compartment.

I look at her, dumbfounded.

“That wasn’t my intention…” I mumble, aware I screwed up again.

She must notice my expression because she immediately changes her mind.

“I suppose I could try the perfume,” she murmurs. She plasters a tight smile on her face as she grabs the gift bag again and takes out the box.

She’s doing this to appease me.

My heart is pounding in my chest.

Minnie struggles to get the perfume bottle out of its box. Keeping one hand on the wheel, I use the other to help her.

“It’s caramel-scented,” I mention awkwardly as I try to regain my composure.

She likes sweet things. She should like this too.

“Oh.”

She takes the cap off and sprays the perfume around her.

I hold my breath while she’s deliberating, hoping she’ll like it.

Her brows furrow as her nostrils flare. She scrunches her nose. Then sneezes.

Repeatedly.

One after another, she won’t stop sneezing.

My eyes widen.

I pull over and open the windows to the car.

Her entire face is flushed, and the tip of her nose is bright red.

“You don’t like it.” I release a deep sigh.

“It’s n-not”—sneeze—“that.” Sneeze. “It’s j-just t-too”—sneeze—“strong.”

“That’s fine. You don’t have to wear it,” I tell her.

She attempts a smile, or I think she does because her sneezing fit resumes.

I get out of the car and go to open her door, then pull her out so she can inhale the fresh, crisp winter air. She takes mouthfuls of air, all the while scrubbing her nose, making it even redder.

I forget about the cold or the fact that the snow must be six inches around us. Waving my hands in front of her face, I do my best to help get the toxic fumes out of her vicinity.

Goddamn it. Women are supposed to like perfumes. I spent hours scouring the internet for the best sweet fragrance, but I never once considered that she’d be allergic to it.

“I think I’m good,” she murmurs after about ten minutes of sneezing. Her eyes are damp, and a few tears run down her cheeks from too much sneezing.

I press my thumbs to her face to wipe the moisture away. She gazes at me from beneath her lashes, giving me a tentative smile. She sniffles, and more moisture drips out of her nose. My arm is next to her face and my sweater the closest thing to a handkerchief.

I don’t even get to react before she’s using my clothes to blow her nose.

I can only stare at her in shock as shudders rack my body.

“Thank you,” she mentions when she’s done, wiping her nose a couple more times on the material of my sweater. “That was thoughtful of you.”

Then, as if nothing happened, she turns and gets back into the car.

That little heathen…