Fractured Legacy: Aicil Paranormal Files #1

Chapter 11

Kaylyn

My initial assessment was correct. Jonah really is an asshole. And the one major thing that solidifies his status as an asshole.... He's fucking right.

And, possibly the thing I hate most about him, he seems to understand whatever's going on with me better than I do—which, isn't to say he understands much. The point is, I can feel him stealing control, and I know I should give it to him. Maybe. But I can't.

Once again, he leaves me alone to keep myself busy at his house. A couple of hours after he drops me off, I'm ecstatic to see the locksmith arrive. Finally, I have my keys back. And yet their inherent link to my freedom is null and void since I can't leave without risking at least blacking out. And who knows what after that.

But at least I can retrieve my laptop from the trunk. I curl up on the couch and immerse myself in search after search for anything that might be connected to the Teague Hotel. Or me.

I scan through all of my past case notes, but come up empty at every turn.

The doorbell rings, and I glance at the clock. It's nearly three. I called that one.

Setting my laptop aside, I head to the front of the house to answer the door.

"Where would you like the furniture, Mrs. Troyer?" A tall man in a dark blue jumpsuit asked.

"Uh...." I cock eyebrow but suppress the sarcastic comment, "It's Miss Anderson, thanks. There's an empty room upstairs, arrange it however you like."

I watch the men in jumpsuits rush up and down the stairs with plastic-covered furniture and tools. It doesn't take them long to set up the room, and by the time Jonah calls to check in an hour later, they've cleared out.

Back to nothing to do, so I check on Frank, and wander into the kitchen to search for food. However, instead of opening the refrigerator, I find myself standing in the middle of the room and staring at all of the boxes. Most of them aren't even packing boxes—the stuff is straight from the store.

I trace the tape that holds a box of cookware closed, then rip it off and toss it in the trash. I pile the new cookware near the sink to be washed, flatten the box, and make a pile near the door so it could be recycled. Then, I repeat ad nauseum, washing and putting everything away when the counter gets too full, until the kitchen is mostly in working order.

Then, I rounded up what ingredients I could track down, place a dutch oven on the stove and fill it with water, adding chunks of chicken breast. Luckily there were some times that I paid more attention to Mom than Dad. One was when it came to Thanksgiving dinner, and the other was chicken and dumplings. I mix the ingredients on the counter, roll out the dough and break it into chunks to add to the boiling chicken.

Once everything is cooking, I head back to the couch and pull out my laptop.

It's after six by the time Jonah walks in the door. He drops his keys onto a table in the living room and sniffs the air. "You've been busy."

"I got bored," I say, snapping my laptop closed. "And you're lucky I didn't eat it all without you."

Suddenly, I feel like the bitter half of an old married couple, so I jump off the couch and duck into the kitchen, before the situation can grow more awkward.

Jonah follows, dropping a stack of off-white folders onto the kitchen island. It takes him a few seconds to speak. "You put my kitchen together."

"Are you pissed?" Because, in truth, I might have been. Guess I really am that big of a control freak.