Collecting Cass: A pulse-pounding psychological thriller with a killer twist by Michael Woodman

Author:Michael Woodman [Woodman, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Connlaswell Publishing
Published: 2024-04-17T00:00:00+00:00

- 13 -

Cass slept in the living room, stretched out on the long leather couch. It was a nice spot. Pushed up against a wall under leaded windowpanes, it ticked all her boxes, comfortable, well-lit, and—with a view back to the open doorway—secure. After that workout in the woods, she needed a shower and a change of clothes, but no way was she voluntarily returning to the basement, giving him the easy option of locking its door. If he wanted her back in there, he’d have to drag her kicking and screaming. She woke at dawn, and with no sign of Ted or sounds of movement, she headed for the guest toilet off the hall. It was primitive, just a WC, a sink and a mirror. She stared at the haggard face looking back at her. The mirror was faded at its corners, maybe not as old as the house but getting there. How many farmer's wives had stood in this spot and bemoaned the ravages of time and the toll they had taken on them?

How long has it been?

Four or five days before—or was it more?—she’d been Cassandra Beauvoir, the partner of crypto wunderkind, Rob Washington, and an incognito artist, hiding behind the alias Eden Matrix. Her, or rather his, augmented reality murals had won first prize at the prestigious Ars Electronica Festival. Now she was this… a farm girl, her face scrubbed and wan, her hair knotted in clumps like a bundle of straw.

Fuck it.

Why was she even thinking this?

Get your priorities straight.

She shook herself out of it, splashed her face with cold water, then cleaned up as best she could, flushing that worn, defeated look down the sink and pumping up her game face.

Feeling marginally better, she sat at the kitchen table and pondered her situation while the coffee brewed. She took the cup into the lounge and sat back on the couch, her temporary bed.

She ran it all back, frame by frame. Another near miss. She’d almost made it. But the smart bastard had outfoxed her. Standing at the fence checking out the trees, she’d expected him to run up on the trail behind her. Then, as he approached, she’d have shinned up a tree. She’d already picked one out, a tree with a stout brunch poking out over the fence. If she’d crawled along it with him below, he’d have had no choice. Her head rolling off her body and dropping at his feet—he’d never allow that. No way. When all he had to do was click a few keys. For sure, he’d have shut down the sensors and tried to recapture her from the other side of the fence. She’d have had a chance. As for his finale, telling her to kill herself and bidding her farewell, that was phony. She’d forced it out of him. She’d dumped pity on him. His impotence. That was like marking it up with a highlighter instead of compassionately reaching out. That happens to lots of men. It’s nothing.

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