The Mindf*ck Series

Chapter 11

𝘕𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘱 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘺𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧.
- 𝘊𝘰𝘯𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘪𝘶𝘴

𝗟𝗔𝗡𝗔

When I reach the drop spot, I leave the car and keys in the parking lot, along with a couple thousand dollars under the seat. The drop spot changes all the time, and they only get a five minute warning before I’m gone.

I grab my bag of wet clothes, and the black bag from the trunk that has minimal supplies, just as all the warehouse cars have.

I toss the clothes into a trashcan, and start hiking down the road, ignoring the cars that pull over to ask if I need a ride. It isn’t until a motorcycle rolls up that I smile and roll my eyes.

“Really? How’d you make it out of your house on a motorcycle?” I groan, hopping on the back as Jake gives me a helmet.

“I didn’t,” he says with a shrug. “I picked it up from the warehouse when I went to make sure your car didn’t have any trackers or anything on.it.”

I put my arms around his waist, and he pats my hand.

“Did he confess?”

“More than you know. I don’t want to talk about it right now. In fact, I never want to tell you the things he confessed to. I want to scrub it from my mind so that I’m not tempted to run down the list of every pedophile out there and repeat the same ending for them. However, there is something I need to tell you, but I’ll wait until I have the energy to deal with your rant.”

He sighs harshly while revving the bike, and he drives me all the way to the warehouse.

“I’ll send the link to the new cameras to you so you can watch Anthony in your free time,” he says as I head toward my car.

“I’ll be waiting.”

With that, I drive straight home, not even acknowledging the patrol cars at the end of my driveway.

I can’t stop them from hanging out on the street, unfortunately.

My house is unnaturally quiet, something I find peaceful instead of eerie like most people. I hurry through the motions of stepping into the shower, feeling the warm spray of the water against my back.

The sounds of footsteps have me turning off the water and stepping out of the shower. With silent movements, I wrap up in a towel and open the shower door, watching with a wary eye.

Just as silently, I open the drawer, and pull out the gun I have hidden there. Why is there a gun hidden in my bathroom? Have you ever seen a horror film? The girl always gets stabbed in the shower. Or she runs into the bathroom and locks the door, but has no way to defend herself when the psycho killer breaks in.

I could defend myself and have no plans of hiding in the bathroom, but a backup plan never hurts.

Clutching my towel with one hand and holding the gun in the other, I
carefully open the bathroom door. Movement has my hand jerking to the right, but a strong hand clamps around my wrist, and my eyes swing up to meet a devastatingly familiar pair of blues.