Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 63186 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 316(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63186 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 316(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
“Who names a mountain, Bad Bear Mountain?”
“The people who lived here, obviously. Maybe there’s a bear problem.” Oops, that probably would’ve been good to know before we went on an extended hike in the wilderness.
I try to search the internet for more info about Bad Bear Mountain and how it got its name, but the web page won’t load.
We reach the summit around noon. I don’t have to check my phone for the time– I can tell because the sun is directly above us. I’m practically a boy scout.
“Okay.” I drop my poles and pack. Everything I’ve been carrying has gotten heavier in the past thirty minutes. “This is it. You want to do the honors, or shall I?”
Bentley makes an impatient gesture. “Get it over with.”
“Not exactly the respect Mom and Roger deserve, but okay.” I pull out the urn and head for a crop of rocks and a boulder that juts out over a scenic overlook.
While Bentley waits at the base, his arms crossed over his chest, I creep up the long ledge, planting each foot after the other with care. At the end of the rocky plank, I hold the urn close and peer over the edge. The long drop makes me dizzy. This high up, exposed, the wind whips my braids around my face.
“What are you waiting for?” Bentley calls.
“I'm waiting for the wind to blow the correct direction,” I holler back. “I don’t want to get a mouthful of Mom and Roger.”
He grunts, conceding the point.
I stand at the edge of the world, hanging on to the urn. Now that I'm here, sweating in the hot sun, I wish I had done more to make this moment special. I should’ve prepared a speech. “Should I say a few words?”
“Lana, for fuck’s sake,” he shouts back.
Fine. I open the urn. “Goodbye Mom, Roger,” I whisper to the wind and let the ashes stream away. I think about all the good times we had, the handful of winter break holidays and my graduation from boarding school. Our parents traveled a lot and lived their own lives, but the time we did share was special. And we certainly lacked for nothing. When I needed funds to start my company–
“Are you going to stay up there all day?”
“I’m saying goodbye,” I shoot back over my shoulder. “They were our parents.”
“No. That was your mom and my dad. We’re not a family. We never were. And now it’s over.” His voice gains a sinister edge.
I press my lips together. I could ask him why he has to be so rude, but he's always been like this to me. Would it have killed him to be nice to me, his younger step sister? I’d always wanted a sibling. The smallest bit of kindness, and I would have adored him.
When I turn, Bentley is waiting at the bottom of the ledge. There's a look of ugly glee on his face, and something flashes in his hand, reflecting the bright sunlight.
A knife.
“Bentley?” I stare at the weapon. “What are you doing?”
“You’re so stupid,” he spits. “You think I'm going to tromp up all the way here and miss this opportunity? They'll think you died in an accident. And I'll mourn you. Hell, I can put you in that urn.” He jerks his chin towards the now empty urn, and I clutch it to my chest as if it can protect me.
“What are you talking about?”
“Do I have to spell it out?”
“Seriously, Bentley, what the heck? Put that down. Someone could get hurt.”
“That’s the plan.” Bentley’s forehead is red and shiny. He's sweating so furiously, his grip on the knife must be slippery.
I take a step back.
“Yes, that's it,” he motions with the knife. “Move back.”
A few pebbles tumble out from under my shoe and bounce down the ledge, disappearing from view. “But…I'll go over the edge.”
“Exactly.” His grin is evil.
“This is ridiculous.” I put my hands on my hips. “Why would you want to kill me? Is this about the money? The inheritance? We’re both getting equal shares of the estate. The will splits the assets down the middle. The houses, the investments–”
“It should’ve been all mine!” Spit flies from Bentley’s mouth. “It was my dad’s fortune!” Sweat sluices over his threadbare eyebrows and pours into his eyes. He goes to mop his brow with the hand that is holding the knife.
“Ooh, careful.” My hand flies out to warn him from slicing up his own head. “Don’t hold the knife like that. You'll cut yourself.”
Bentley lowers the knife and wipes his head with his free hand.
Am I really talking him through how to properly hold a knife while he’s trying murder me? I should be trying to get away.
I scuttle to the side of the big, jutting rock, but my options are limited. The side of the ledge is steep, and if I put a foot wrong, I’ll fall. Best case, I’ll fall a few feet to the boulders below. Worse case…