That's her name.
It didn't take my investigator long to pull up that Donald Jameson, my next-door neighbor, has a daughter, but
other than she got her GED online, there isn’t much to know. There aren't any school records of her, no social media profiles, no hospital records other than her birth.
Nothing.
It's like she's never existed in the outside world.
I also had my guy do some digging on Donald for good measure. I never really knew much about the widower next door, other than he was some sort of successful businessman. He’d have to be to have the kind of estate he does.
However, my investigator’s probing found disturbing evidence that the old man’s business dealings are not on the up and up. He’s connected to some powerful men who are known for unscrupulous practices, men who may be tied to the criminal underworld.
I have my suspicions about him, so I know that wherever this leads, I’ll have to tread carefully.
I sit inside my bedroom and stare up at Addison’s window. The view isn't as good from here as it is from the balcony. I'm viewing it at an angle, but it allows me to watch her surreptitiously.
“Addison.” I speak her name aloud, almost reverently, loving the way it rolls off my tongue. It suits her.
She's painting again. This time she's sitting on a stool, and she's wearing more clothing than she was last night—though not much. Short shorts and a thin tank top. Her long hair flows down her back, bouncing lightly with her brushstrokes.
She's exquisite.
Sometimes she just stops and gazes ahead of her, looking off into the ocean. A quick survey of the house told me that she's also got windows on the other side of her room facing the Pacific. She sits there for minutes at a time with the saddest look on her face.
She looks out of that window longingly like she's trapped.
And I start to wonder if she is.
I mean, I grew up in this house, and I never saw a girl. I'm twenty-eight, and she looks to be in her teens, so wouldn't I have seen a little girl over there?
The longer I stare at her sad face, the more I become convinced that she's a captive, a pretty bird in a gilded cage. I don't know how I know. I just know.
And I want to know why. I want to rescue her. I want to be her savior.
I sit there all day and watch her. She paints. She stares morosely out the window with her knees pulled up to her chin. She reads.
But she's always in front of the window as if she craves the sunlight and is trying to absorb whatever she can through the glass.
When I see a tear trickle down her cheek, my heart wrenches within my chest.
I can't take it anymore and make my way out onto the balcony.
I need to let her know she's not alone. That I see her, and I care. That I want to help her.
She wipes her face and stands up as soon as I step out onto the balcony, moving closer to the window until she's damn near pressed up against it.
My heart rate picks up in my chest as I take in her shapely legs and ivory skin. She's like a princess in a tower, and I'm the prince who’s finally come to release her.
Her caramel eyes are pinned on me, and all I can do is gaze back at her.
She's so breathtakingly beautiful.
When I finally get my wits about me, I motion for her to open her window.
She looks down and shakes her head sadly, showing me that it won't open.
My blood roars in my ears with a mixture of excitement and fury that my suspicions are proving correct.