Read Online When You Don't See Me by Timothy James Beck - Free Book Online

the guest bath had one fingerprint on its center. I laughed and wondered how many other strategic hairs or crumbs were left to test me.
    I emptied the trash can, but ignored the mirror entirely.
    The bedrooms were just as sleek and modern. I was grateful for the black lacquered platform beds, because I didn’t have to clean under them. Not that I would’ve. I’d already made up my mind that I didn’t like the apartment’s owner. I didn’t want to care for his apartment, either. I didn’t like modern high-rise buildings. They sometimes looked interesting and different from the norm on the outside, but inside, the apartments were always the same cookie-cutter formation. Kitchen, living area, bedroom, bath, all arranged in rectangle after rectangle, box upon box. The owner of this penthouse had to be king of the banal.
    I tried to water the plants on the terrace, as instructed. But when I felt the wind rush past my ears and saw how high up I was, I heaved into a potted palm and went back inside.
    I found some aspirin in the master bathroom medicine cabinet. I washed it down, leaving water droplets on the granite sink, sat down on the bed, and opened a nightstand drawer. Parker D. Brooks owed fifty-six thousand three hundred twelve dollars and eighty-two cents to American Express. And I thought I had problems. I spent the next half hour looking through his closets and opening drawers, sometimes trying on his clothes.
    I was accessorizing with a pair of sunglasses when I heard the unmistakable sound of a pistol being cocked. A voice behind me said, “Drop the shades and raise your hands slowly! Wait. Don’t. Carefully place the Armani sunglasses on the dresser, then raise your hands slowly.”
    I followed instructions and willed myself not to pee in his pants.
    The guy I assumed was Parker D. Brooks patted me down with one hand, then said, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
    â€œCleaning?”
    I slowly turned around. He looked like he was only a few years older than me, which was surprising. I’d imagined Parker D. Brooks as being in his forties, with a chiseled body underneath his expensive suits. This guy looked like he spent all day at the tennis courts—so he could watch.
    He squinted at my crotch and asked, “Are those my pants?”
    â€œThey’re a little big,” I said defensively.
    â€œTake them off!” he demanded. “And hang them up. I don’t believe this. Who are you, anyway, and where’s Deshaun?”
    â€œI’m William,” I lied. “Deshaun’s sick. I’m just filling in.”
    â€œThis is unacceptable.” He tossed the gun into the bedside drawer on top of the American Express bill, muttering that it wasn’t loaded anyway. He pulled a vial from his pocket, cut two lines on the nightstand, then snorted them up his right nostril while I pulled on my jeans and thought about running for the fire stairs. I’d never seen anyone snort cocaine. “This has never happened to me before. I’m not a bad person. Why would you do this to me? I don’t deserve to be treated like this. If you were me, what would you do?”
    Wipe my nose off, I thought. Instead, I said, “I don’t know.”
    â€œGenius answer,” he said. “Do you do this to all your clients?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œJust me? I don’t even know you. Ask me anything, and I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. You don’t have to snoop through my things.”
    â€œAre you going to call my boss?” I asked.
    â€œI should,” Parker D. Brooks said. “Unless you can give me a reason not to.”
    Before I knew what I was doing, I heard myself stammering and whining about how I needed my job, how I had rent and bills to pay, and how I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if I got fired. I sounded weak and pathetic.
    I was almost grateful when Parker D. Brooks held up