Creature of Habit (Creature of Habit #1) (4 page)

Chapter 7

Amelia

"Blow," Drew commanded as he handed me a tissue.

I took it from him and wiped my nose. After I'd been told to leave by Mr. Palmer, I ran to my car and inexplicably cried all the way home. I wasn’t a big crier, like, ever, but something about our exchange unnerved me. I felt sick to my stomach and my head hurt. My reaction made no sense. Drew found me a short while later curled up, in my pajamas, eating peanut butter out of the jar. Now we sat on the couch together with my feet tucked under his body. He had brought over his own spoon along with a pack of crackers. When the jar was half empty he said, "Tell me exactly what happened after we hung up."

I sniffed. "I called Genevieve and she hooked me up with a friend who works in an attorney's office who is happy to help out when needed. Needless to say, I have him on speed dial now."

I dipped my spoon into the jar and came up with a hulking scoop of peanut butter. Before putting it in my mouth, I continued. "After that I booked it back to the office trying to salvage part of the night. I was standing at the desk when I heard something, I mean, someone, behind me."

I ate a chunk of peanut butter off the spoon and Drew smeared his on the crackers. I took a huge gulp of milk to wash it down.

"Drew, you know when you get that feeling, like the hairs on the back of your neck stand up?" I asked.

He nodded. "Intuition, your sense of self-preservation."

"Exactly. That's what I felt except it was weird. One minute I was alone and then the next I instinctively knew I wasn’t. I mean, it was only Mr. Palmer, so I was relieved, but at the same time he was not happy to see me. The look on his face was totally bizarre.”

“Define bizarre.”

“Like weird. Creepy as hell. How did he sneak up on me like that? Why did he look at me like I was a freak? I mean, he’s the freak.”

“Right? It’s not like he didn’t tell you to work late.”

"That's what makes this even more infuriating, he is the one who made me do all that crap after hours! Why was he acting so strange?"

My tears were gone and now I was beyond upset and had moved onto pissed. Not only was my boss obsessive-compulsive and pretentious, he was a jerk, too. I shouldn't be surprised. That closet pretty much explained everything about him.

Drew glanced at me and suggested, "Maybe he was having a bad day? Even hot jerks have a bad day every once in a while, right?"

I rolled my eyes at him and he stuck his tongue out in return. "I don't care, Drew. It is not okay to treat people like that. Even if you are a rich, hot boss."

Drew narrowed his eyes and made a face.

“What?”

"Was he really as hot in person as he was in those photos?"

Leaning back into the side of the couch I groaned before answering, "I only saw him for a second, and I thought I may pee myself, but I have to say hotter. Definitely hotter."

Drew snorted, amused by my plight. I found myself laughing back, enough to break out of my wallowing. I grabbed the peanut butter jar and scraped out the last glob. Just my luck.  I'd finally gotten a job with a really hot, young boss, and he was a total ass.

Chapter 8

Grant

Vermeer.

Monet.

Renoir.

Van Gogh.

Mondrian.

Dali.

Picasso
.

I listed the names and conjured an image of each one—taking a breath to calm my nerves. It worked, barely. At the very best, time slowed and my mind wandered, while I pressed my back against the crumbling wall.

It was strange how time moved differently at different phases of life. When I was a school boy the day would go on endlessly. Each minute felt like an eternity. Yet, summer vacation would pass in the blink of an eye. Later, hours passed by like seconds, days like hours, and weeks, like days. In the blink of an eye I would realize a month had passed and while I could recall every instance, the actual time had slipped away with little notice. That was not the case this weekend. From the moment Amelia Chase ran out the front door on Friday evening, my life came to a screeching halt.

Well, this wasn't entirely true. I had one slip where I actually attempted to get out the door. I stopped myself, but not before ripping the security system out of the wall in utter frustration and disappointment. My anger was as much at myself as it was letting Ms. Chase go. I regretted both.

I was better than this. Infinitely better. Stronger. More disciplined. I had control of my…well, I had control of everything. My life, my house, my work—everything was perfectly managed. At least until the unfortunate encounter between me and Ms. Chase.

I forced myself back inside and lay on the floor until I calmed down. Physically I was fine, at least for the most part. The scent still bothered me but that was the least of my concerns at the moment. The girl had changed things for me. I realized I’d been living recklessly and therefore had exposed myself to a great vulnerability. Professionals would call this a ‘relapse’.

Matisse

Degas

Cezanne

In my life there was no room for error. Any breach to my personal property would be catastrophic.  An intruder in my home was unacceptable. And although Ms. Chase was not actually an intruder, the fact she surprised me to the point that I was unaware of her existence in my own home was more than concerning. It was alarming and quite frankly suicidal.

Around dawn, I managed to contain myself, finally convinced I wouldn't do anything rash. I left the foyer, leaving the mess of the broken door and security system to deal with later.  Right now, I needed to figure out how to deal with the problem of Ms. Chase. I hadn’t had an impulse like that in decades. Why her? Why was she different? And how had she rebuffed my directions so easily?

Before anything else I retrieved a container of blood from my quarters and ripped off the seal, consuming the contents in a single gulp. Then I opened another. And another.

I hadn’t had the need to feed like this in many years—hunting was my preferred method. I deprived myself of many things—the thrill of the hunt was one of the few basic desires I still pursued. But I was always prepared for a potential emergency.

Steadier, I went to her desk. I placed the container next to her keyboard and lowered myself in her chair, looking for something. Anything.

Unlike Genevieve or the PA before her, there were no personal photos or trinkets on the desk. She’d only been here for a week. Was that too early for desk decorating? Possibly. I opened the center drawer and pushed aside the pens and pencils. I found a receipt in the corner of the drawer. I picked it up and began reading.

Ted's Tofu Hut

1-Falafel Wrap….5.99

No Onions

1-Large Herbal Tea (decaffeinated)...$1.99

1-Slice Carrot Cake….3.99

I felt my eyes narrow in concentration. Tofu? She must be a vegetarian. One who didn't eat onions or drink caffeine. But she wasn't totally healthy. Even I knew carrot cake was still cake.

I shut the drawer and reached for the tablet near the phone with curled girlish writing on it. I felt a wave of humor looking at her handwriting. It reminded me of the pathetic love notes sent to me by various girls when I was a student at school.

Apples

TV Guide

Apple Sauce

Socks

Vitamin-Water

Q-Tips

Water with Vitamins? That sounded revolutionary.  What kind of store sold apple sauce
and
socks?

I shoved the list away, feeling even more confused about my assistant. I thought about what I did know. I had read her recommendation from Mr. Hudson and her resume. She’d been commended for her work ethic and organizational skills. She wasn’t at the top of her class but had plans for furthering her education in the future.  Genevieve was impressed and thought she would do well here.

On a personal level I knew she was from Atlanta. Parents still married. No siblings. What else was there to know? Oh, she smelled fantastic.

I spent the rest of the day retracing her footsteps. In the kitchen she had used a glass and a mug from the cabinet. There was a tea bag in the trashcan. In the refrigerator I found soy milk and Greek yogurt. In the storage closet the light bulbs were stacked perfectly and slightly angled to fit on the shelf in even numbers.

She’d been everywhere. Some clearly to perform her work duties. Others seemed to be random wanderings. In the parlor I found imprints of her shoes in the carpet near my Cezanne. She’d been in the library, leaving oily fingerprints on the covers of my Shakespeare. In the bathroom I could smell lemons on the hand towels.

She had marked every inch of my home.

None of this told me much, I knew, but it was all I could do for the moment. I knew what I
wanted
to do. I wanted to go find her and figure out how exactly she’d been able to resist my command. That would be my first question. Okay, realistically that would be my only question. I sincerely doubted she’d live much longer to answer any more.

Unable to do what I wanted, I retreated to my private quarters, cancelling my plans for the weekend. I sent the binders she made by courier to the office and made my presentation by Skype. I delved into my papers and attempted to follow my typical routine. That was how an addict fought a full-fledged relapse. Go back to habits. Ingrain them.

That was how I pushed through the weekend.

I lied to myself, pretending I didn't care to know more about the mysterious Amelia Chase by studiously researching or cataloging information about the murders in the area. Perhaps, I considered, after reading about a particularly bloody kill, I considered she was some sort of test. Something to prepare me for a future battle.  Maybe she was delivered by the Divine. Those were the lies I told myself when I left my papers and computer searches to escape into my closet to press my nose to any article of clothing she may have touched.

A test. She was simply a test. One I could successfully pass—like all other challenges over the course of my lifetime.

I ignored my phone and its incessant ringing. I pushed away the outside world. She was outside and I wasn’t ready to face anything beyond these walls.

By the end of Sunday I was thoroughly exhausted but had made some decisions. I stretched out on the floor of my dressing room and inhaled the lingering hint of lemon. Amelia Chase was an enigma. That much I was willing to admit. But she wouldn't defeat me or my mission. I would use this as a challenge to further my discipline and focus.

And if it didn't work I would let her go and find a new assistant.

For now I would immerse myself in her smell and struggle to become stronger.

Chapter 9

Amelia

On Monday I paced the sidewalk outside Mr. Palmer’s building and gave myself a pep talk. Like a complete, “
You’ve got this, Mel
!” speech, which really just made me feel worse and not better.

To a passerby I was sure I looked unbalanced, and I probably qualified. I didn't know many other people who would be willing to go back to a job environment as hostile as this one. Okay, hostile may be an exaggeration. All he did was ask me to leave in the calmest, smoothest, creepiest voice I had ever heard. Call it intuition, but it felt like more than a simple request.  I wasn't someone who would quit a job for trivial reasons. Mr. Palmer being creepy, as far as I was concerned, counted as trivial.

It was a beautiful day, the first truly warm weather we’d had this summer.  Even in the warmer months it remained cool in the mountains. People had a tendency to take advantage and stay outside as much as possible when the opportunity arose. I secretly hoped Mr. Palmer would be out of the house all day and would stay away from me in general.

So, with one last, "Grant Palmer can fuck himself," mumbled under my breath, I stepped off the sidewalk and up the steps leading to the front door. That was until I saw the front door. Or actually, some of the front door. Okay there was a door, but the glass looked like someone had detonated a bomb, leaving splinters of wood peeling from the edges of the frame.

“What the hell?” I asked. The door looked like someone smashed something into the it like a battering ram. I tiptoed over the mess, crushing glass and pieces of wood under my shoes and breathed a sigh of relief that the key worked. Yes, even through all that the door was locked and beyond that, I really didn’t want to ring the bell. 

Just inside the foyer an ugly tangle of wires and metal hung from the former security box.  Side-stepping the mess, I looked to hang my coat and bag on the hook in the hall. It too had been torn off the wall. Whatever happened here came from the inside, not out.

I listened carefully.

“Hello?” I called. Okay, ‘called’ may be a little much. Whispered? I didn’t really want to alert Mr. Palmer or a robber or the S.W.A.T. team that tore through that door about my presence. I was met with silence. I wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing. I had previously decided to treat this day like any other, like Friday evening hadn't occurred. Obviously there were bigger problems to deal with.

A list waited for me at my desk and thankfully, none of the notations were for me to pack up my belongings and leave. An additional message was at the bottom of the page.

Ms. Chase,

Please contact Asheville Handymen to come repair the door as well as Smokey Mountain Security. Both of these jobs need to be completed by the end of the day-GP

I flipped the heavy cardstock note over, but that was it. No explanation other than instructions to stay in the home with the workers at all times. The normal list had plenty of items on it to keep me busy while the repairs were being completed.

Okay, maybe Mr. Palmer wasn’t just creepy but downright crazy.

I turned on the computer and found the address book with all the contact information for Mr. Palmer's needs. I called the handyman service.

“Asheville Handymen, this is Jack.”

“Jack, I’m calling from Mr. Palmer’s office and we are in desperate need of your service.”

“Oh! Mr. Palmer! Of course, what do you need?” He sounded like he may have wet himself.

“Yeah, we’ve got a bit of a problem over here. You’re going to have to see it yourself.”

“I’ll have my best team there in an hour. Probably less.”

“What? No, standard 6 hour time frame like the cable company?”  I wasn’t surprised though. Even in my short time working for Mr. Palmer it was obvious how the rich received special treatment. To be fair, if Mr. Palmer trusted him in his home he probably paid him very well.

While I waited for them to arrive, I busied myself with my latest project; the ridiculously tedious task of updating names and addresses into a new program recently installed on the computer. Mr. Palmer wanted this to be linked to his phone and laptop. I stared at the intimidating list. Sometimes I felt like this house was caught between two worlds. One modern and one a little old-fashioned.  Like the current project. I had to take the handwritten names and add them to the database. Why were they handwritten in the first place? Whatever, I thought.

Not my business.

I bit the bullet and began working. I had made it through one and a half pages of Mr. Palmer’s perfectly perfect handwriting when the front door rang. Expecting the workmen, I rushed over to open the door, and was surprised to see it was a postal delivery man carrying a massive box in both hands.

“I’ve got a package for Mr. Palmer,” the man said.

“I’ll sign for it,” I said.

“What the heck happened to this door? You guys get robbed?”

“It was like this when I got here. I haven’t quite figured it out myself.”

He shook his head and asked where I wanted the box. I pointed to my office to get it out of the way of the mess.

As he was, leaving a van pulled up with the logo for the handymen on the side. I waited for them at the front door. Two men close to my age walked up the front steps in jeans and matching work shirts. They stopped before the porch, jaws dropped, taking in the broken door.

"So, I guess I don't have to tell you what's wrong," I said, gesturing to the mess behind me.

The one with the name Thomas embroidered on his pocket spoke up and said, "No, I think we can figure it out. But how the heck did this happen?"

"I have no idea. Mr. Palmer only left me instructions to call you and have it repaired.”

The other man, whose name was Mark, swung the door open and shut while scratching his head. "Doesn't matter how it happened, I guess, but I hate to tell you this is going to be a pretty big job."

I frowned. “How big?"

"Obviously you’ll need a new door, but we’ll have to repair the door jamb first. Once the security system is back up and running we’ll have to come inside and replace the interior wall.  That’s original plaster so we’ll have to touch it up also, oh and the glass.”

“Can you at least get it fixed today? Mr. Palmer requested it be finished before the end of the day.”

Thomas looked over the damage again. "It's gonna take us at least until late afternoon to get the first coat of plaster on. You may want to tell the security guys to come later today."

“I guess you better get started,” I said, turning to walk back to my desk. “I have a feeling he’d like it done as soon as possible.”

Thomas nodded and then turned back to me. “I’ll call in a couple more guys. Uh, I don’t think I got your name…you know, in case we need you for something."

I turned back toward him and noticed he had nice brown eyes and a friendly smile, which I returned. I offered my hand. "I'm Amelia. Amelia Chase."

He gripped it in his own. "Nice to meet you, Amelia."

I left them to their work and went back to my desk to call the security company. They promised to come by 4 PM which would give Thomas and Mark a chance to get a good head start. Off and on I checked on the guys to see if they needed water and peek at their progress as they dismantled what remained of the door off its hinges. Each time I saw the mess I was left with the same question, how did this happen in the first place?