The Wanted Read Online Free PDF

Este’s quarter, things changed dramatically. A neat line and gate defined the transition from one segment of the pie to the next. A single-bulb lamp hung overhead. The white gravel changed to a brick path, with round halos of light built into the bricks. The gardens changed to spiky grasses and architectural plants, pointless trees with no purpose other than to look imposing. They leaned over the path, their branchy fingers almost touching, forming a low, lit tunnel.
    I knew without being told that this was Grant’s section of the compound. It was far more orderly than Este’s was. Each field fenced neatly, each section of garden aesthetically perfect, but there was no feel of life. While Este’s seemed like it was a home for madness and nonsense, Grant’s was stiflingly regimented.
    As we rounded the curve, Superior Grant’s house came into view, all angles and sloping roofs, sitting atop a grassy, man-made hill and lording over the ground below. It was nothing like Este’s and nothing like home. The whole front was glass. My eyes scanned the floor-to-ceiling windows, and I jumped when I saw that Grant’s shadow graced one of them. He sat in his wheelchair, staring down at me, his apathetic expression coming into focus as we neared the house. Warm, golden rectangles of light shone down on us from inside, and I found myself stepping over the shadows like they were solid. There was no gate to pass through, no extensive security measures. We walked down a short driveway and straight into an underground garage. The doors were already rolled up, waiting for us to enter.
    Snake eyes pressed a button on an intercom on the inside wall and hissed, “Where do you want the, err, her?”
    Grant’s voice sailed through the speaker and itched at my ears with its twangy sound. “First floor, second guest bedroom.”
    Guest? I trembled at the thought.
    “Lucky girl,” the guard snarled.
    I turned around slowly and spoke, my voice still wire-brushed and new to me. “Why am I not going to a prison? What does he want from me?”
    They both laughed and didn’t answer. I hoped it was because they didn’t know.
    One guard pressed the up button on the lift. The doors opened, and I caught a flash of hot, red, and shining chrome through the double doors of the lift before they closed. I leaned towards them in curiosity. The guard grabbed my shoulder and pulled me away from the view.
    “Stand back,” he said warily, his eyes searching out the corners of the lift. They both behaved as if they were being watched all the time. They probably were.
    The lift glided upwards, strange moaning music playing, the singer caught in a trap he couldn’t get out of by the sound of it. One guard clicked his fingers in time. The doors chimed and opened. A female guard stood to attention in front of the lift, jumping to life when she saw me, her red roots poking through her light brown dye job shone hopelessly under the round lights punched into the ceiling. She leaned in, grabbed my arm, and squeezed, yanking me out of the lift and away from the men.
    “Thank you for delivering Miss Rosa.” She eyed my clothing or lack thereof. “I’ll have your jacket cleaned and returned to you.” They nodded, and I caught one of them anxiously pressing the down button. He wanted to get out of there.
    “Keep it,” he shouted nervously as the doors closed on his narrow face.
    I found myself missing them as soon the door closed. This woman’s tight hold, the sleek décor, the fact that she called me Miss Rosa, were all more unnerving than the outward hostility and punches in the back. That, I understood.
    She marched me down a hallway, lights glowing along the floor, and carpet the color of bruised lips and blood sinking between my toes. I looked up to see a large painting of a can of tomato soup and laughed. The squeeze got tighter, and her expression pulled her face in like purse strings. We came to a polished, wooden door with copper wall lights on