A Betting Man

Chapter Ten

Adelaide's Point of View

I can't help but feel a little nervous as I make the long drive to Justin's house. I've been on edge all day just thinking about it. Yet it's not as if I'm doing anything much different from what he did...

Okay, so that's a lie. I plan to sneak into his house and help myself to his kitchen where I'll cook something that may or may not be edible. I'm usually a fairly good cook, but with my nerves I think it's all fair game at this point.

God, I'll be lucky if I don't get arrested for this.

I crank my music loud. So loud I can barely think. I'm deafened by Talking Heads and, while I don't feel much better, at least I'm not talking myself into a tizzy and making myself feel worse.

The drive to his house seems unnaturally short, as though it only took a minute rather than over an hour. I consult my printed Mapquest directions, already resigned to the fact that I'll likely get lost and spend an extra hour finding my way again, but surprisingly, the directions are dead on. I find it without one single wrong turn or doubt.

The irony is not lost on me.

I turn the stereo down once I reach his neighborhood. The houses are large, set far back from the road with perfectly manicured lawns and shrubbery. There are nice cars in the driveways, accessories to their fancy property. But what sticks out most is that the neighborhood is full of trees – some bend over the road, reaching towards the passing cars, while others protect the yards from the constantly gray haze that passes for sunshine around here.

I like the trees. They're green, bright, and friendly. They seem to wave as I pass, and I instantly feel better.

Then I laugh at myself, snorting out loud. What the fuck is wrong with me? I like the trees?

Get a grip, Addie. Time to put your game face on... and quit acting psycho, for crying out loud.

Justin's house is large and beautiful, just like every other home on the street. Two-stories, well-kept and clean. There are no cars in the driveway, but the numbers on the mailbox promise that this is it. I park on the side, near the closed garage, and wonder if leaving my car in plain view is a good idea. Is he close to his neighbors? Will someone call the cops on me?

Closer observation reveals there really isn't anywhere to hide it unless I park it down the street or something. And that just seems time-consuming. Shaking my head, I grab the plastic bags from my car and head to the front door, stepping over his cement steps and eyeing the welcome mat. Aside from it, you wouldn't be able to tell anyone lives here. Sheesh.

I don't bother knocking; instead I reach for the porch light, fumbling around the glass casing, and eventually emerge with the key Cayden told me was hidden there. So far, so good – yet my current fortune doesn't stop my heart from beating in overdrive. I take a deep breath and shove the key into the lock. The door swings open effortlessly, like a silent invitation to step inside. I accept.

The alarm beeps. I punch in the numbers Cayden provided and, to my immense relief, it shuts off. Thank you, Jesus.

The foyer is spacious and immaculately clean; two long, slender windows that are positioned on either side of the door allow some gray sunshine to pool onto the white tile. The tile gives way to beige carpet; I consider kicking off my shoes but eventually shrug and walk right on in, dirty shoes and all. His living room is equally pristine – not a thing is out of place. The couch looks as if it's more for decoration than actual sitting. There's indiscernible artwork on the wall, but no photographs – a stark contrast to my own home. I'm reminded of an ad in a Southern Living magazine rather than the bachelor's abode I expected.