Page 147 of The Rival's Obsession
I dig through the drawers inside the closet island, scanning for anything out of place. Hidden compartments. Documents. Keys.
Behind me, Jaxon leans in the doorway, arms crossed over his broad chest. “This is the most aggressively beige room I’ve ever seen.”
I don’t stop searching. “Check the nightstand drawers.”
“I’m not touching her nightstand. That’s how you find dildos or diaries, and neither is on my to-do list tonight.”
“Oh yeah, a diary would be good. Hop to it.”
“Fine.” He sighs and pads across the carpet. “But if something bites me, I’m running away.”
He pulls open the drawer and whistles. “No dildos. Thank God. Just a Bible and a gun.”
That gets my attention. “Really?”
“No.”
“Ugh, Jax!”
“You think she’s hiding a body in here?” he asks, reaching into the drawer and shifting a few things before closing it.
Next is an armchair by the window. He slides it about an inch to the left.
Rounding the bed, Jax tilts the table lamp’s shade ever so slightly, then joins me in the closet.
“What are you doing?” I ask, watching him open a drawer that is lined with the most perfectly folded and organized socks I’ve ever seen in my life.
He picks one up, turns it the opposite direction, and closes the drawer again.
“This’ll drive her nuts.” He takes two pairs of shoes next to each other and switches their places. “You know Charles Manson had his freaks do this. Break into people’s houses and do nothing but move their shit juuuuuust a little.”
Jaxon spends a good bit of time rearranging her jewelry drawers while I pause and take in the space, looking around for the one thing that doesn’t belong here.
It’s like everything is so perfect on purpose—to distract from something. I just need to figure out what.
“Who knew one woman needed so many beige trench coats.” Jax shakes his head as he removes a shirt from a hanger and flips it inside out before returning it.
When he reaches up to place the hanger back in its place, that’s when I see it.
One thing that doesn’t belong in this curated beige nightmare.
A brown—not pristine—box.
Slightly darker than everything else here, yellowed from time. A little worn on the edges. A smudge on the lid. Imperfect.
Bingo.
“Jax! Get that down for me.”
He squints. “Oh, so this is why you really wanted me to come along. Taking advantage of my height?”
“Yes, now gimme.”
He rolls his eyes but plucks it down effortlessly and hands it to me like he’s presenting a cursed artifact. “Behold. The Box of Doom.”
It’s an old shoebox. The cardboard is soft in places, like it’s been opened and closed a hundred times. Something about it immediately prickles under my skin.
I lift the lid and my heart drops.
