The Price Of Playing Victim
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Summary
When I pushed open the door to my bedroom, Toby was balanced precariously on a chair, his fingers straining toward the heavy metal lockbox perched on the very top shelf of my wardrobe.
He didn't expect me back so early. The sudden creak of the hinges sent a jolt through him; his grip slipped, and my $45,000 Patek Philippe hit the mattress with a sickening, muffled thud.
His eyes darted everywhere but at me, his face flushing a guilty, blotchy red. "Gavin... I was... I just wanted to look at it..."
I didn't move. I just watched him.
