Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Lena snorts.
“Stop apologizing, girl.” Her voice is harsh, but her touch soothes as she squeezes my shoulder. “That man bought himself a fiancée, and you had to go and be dumb enough to fall in love with him for real.”
She says it with such certainty.
And it echoes inside me with an awful clarity, something that should feel wonderful and beautiful, but right now it’s chokingly bittersweet.
God help me.
I love August Marshall.
I love his angry, grumpy, heart-thieving butt, when I’m nothing to him but a minuscule fly in his orbit.
“Well, when you put it that way . . .” I give Lena a lopsided smile.
“Was the sex worth it, at least?” She plunks back down in her chair.
“Lena!” Gran gasps.
I wrinkle my nose. “I mean, it was good . . .”
Gran looks faint, a hand fluttering to her chest. “I cannot know this about my granddaughter. While I know you two impertinent kids are just riling me up, let’s change the subject.”
My smile is a little more rueful as I wipe the last tears away with the paper towel. “I actually think I’m going to go up and lie down. I’m starting to get a headache behind my eyes. I think I have a date with my meds and the blackout blinds if I want to stave off another attack.”
“Of course, dear.” Gran reaches over to squeeze my hand again. “I meant to send this one home, anyway.” She swats Lena’s shoulder lightly. “Go take those muffins to your mother, you vulgar child.”
“I just say the things you won’t.” Lena grins unrepentantly.
“The two of you should take your act on the road.” I shake my head, rising with an amused sigh.
“Hey, not a bad idea, huh, Grams?”
“It’s a terrible idea. Those comedy clubs smell, and you’d make me tell rather blue jokes.”
I love them so much.
And that love gives me just enough energy to trudge upstairs, where I plunk down on my bed and stare for a solid minute.
I feel like my entire life has just fallen apart.
I won’t be going to work tomorrow, or seeing August. Or Clara.
Which reminds me of the sketchbook on my nightstand.
I pull it over, slide the pages open, run my fingers over the little Inky doodles.
The new product line to revive the pen pal program. We were planning it all out—stationery, labels, stickers, pen wraps and toppers, erasers and pencils and collectible toys. A young guy in accounting even had a cool pitch for an Inky app.
August promised he’d look into everything.
And that night I’d gone home and curled up and sketched ideas for product designs in a frenzy, too excited to sleep.
But I guess it doesn’t matter now.
Whatever we had is toast, and so is the entire brand.
That lump in my throat rises, so large it nearly chokes me. When I was a little girl and I used to feel this rudderless, I’d write Inky a letter, never knowing it wasn’t Inky answering at all, but Clara Marshall herself.
I wish I could talk to her.
I wish I could understand.
I wish I could tell her I love her nephew, just so someone knows it, even if it’s not August himself.
But now I can’t.
Maybe writing will make me feel better, though, just like it used to.
I turn to a blank page in my sketchbook and curl up against the headboard of my bed.
I snag a pen from my nightstand.
Then, with all my gnarled feelings, I begin to write.
Dear Inky . . .
XXIV
BREAK IN THE CLOUDS
(AUGUST)
I’m almost crawling out of my skin by the time I disembark at Minneapolis–Saint Paul International and plow through the busy terminal to the rental pickup area.
For a last-minute same-day flight, all that was available was a rental van that looks like it should have FREE CANDY painted on the side in creepy serial killer script.
Beggars really can’t be choosers.
Still, I wish I’d been a little choosier as I wrestle the boxy van onto the road and set out for a small town of only twenty thousand people called Northfield. It’s only a forty-five-minute drive, but I nearly chip a tooth as the van rattles over potholes left behind by another grueling Minnesota winter.
I don’t know how people live in this state.
I also don’t know if it’s the shocks or the suspension, but this thing needs service.
Only Aunt Clara would drive me to this.
Clara—and yes, dammit, Elle.
All so I can try to fix this. So I can save Little Key.
So I can prove I can get over my bullshit.
Enough to tell the truth when I tell Elle I love her and I trust her.
And I’m sorry as hell for exiling her from my life the way I did, when she’s all that’s worth holding on to.
The address the investigator found leads me to a small brick house on a cozy lane with a tidy fenced yard. In the back is a chicken coop, true to the PI’s word.