Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 56870 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 284(@200wpm)___ 227(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56870 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 284(@200wpm)___ 227(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
But now…
I need to read the cryptic notes in her diary again. When Cain rescued me from my apartment months ago, I made sure he wasn’t looking, then snuck into my closet and brought her diary with me. I’d read it over and over again, and there were entries that never made sense to me.
I wonder if they will now.
Before I get the diary, however, my mind is playing tricks on me. A sinking feeling takes root in my belly.
If my mother was an assassin… what does that make me?
I quietly pull back the covers and walk over to my phone. It’s sitting on the charger; I stare at it before touching it.
Somehow… I already know what I’ll find when I look into the details of my mother. For reasons I don’t quite understand, I often work things out in my sleep. I’m not sure why. Some might say it’s a hidden talent of mine. When I was in school, I’d sometimes go to bed with a math problem on my mind and wake up with the detailed answer.
So when I’d gone to sleep, I’d known full well that the answer to this riddle would be my mother’s true identity. I sort of expected something would reveal itself.
I just didn’t know it would happen like this.
I pick my phone up from the charger, then clench my fist when I realize I never plugged it in last night. Ugh, it’s almost dead. I gently put it back on the base and plug it in for real this time, then reach for Cain’s phone instead.
He never cares if I use his phone. He’s given me his bank credentials and passwords, and even got me a charge card on one of his accounts to use. He insisted I use it, so I finally did. He laughed when I told him I bought something for Romulus and Remus so it was easier to justify the expense.
So I don’t think twice about taking it. I take his off the charger—totally charged of course—and silently fire it up. I don’t want to wake him.
I look over at him. He’s still dead asleep with his arm slung over his head.
God, did he give it to me good tonight. It’s rare that he knocks himself out this hard. Poor guy. I turn with my back to him and walk to the little sitting area in the living room attached to his bedroom.
I nestle into the corner of the couch and pull a tattered blanket from the back. He says this was the blanket he used when he bought his first office, so he’ll never get rid of it. I like using it. It makes me think of a younger Cain and feel an imagined connection we didn’t have when we were younger.
I flick on Cain’s phone and enter his password.
Wrong password.
I frown, and enter it again, slower this time so it’s more deliberate.
Wrong password.
I stare unblinking at the phone.
Did he change his password? I’m not going to wake up the poor guy to ask him that. I frown and try one more time.
Phone locked for fifteen minutes.
I didn’t think twice about using his phone before, but now… an odd sense of guilt consumes me.
Is he deliberately trying to get me not to use his phone? I try to think when the last time was that I used his phone and can’t remember. I wasn’t paying attention.
Sometimes people change passwords and just forget about it, I reason. But not Cain… Cain’s a creature of habit, and has very, very deliberate passwords that he never changes.
I go to the closet where I keep my personal things. It’s filled to the max with clothes, shoes, bags, and jackets Cain’s bought me. He loves to spoil me, and in recent months has realized that what I like above all is guns and trucks, so the clothing purchases have tapered off. I smile to myself sadly, running my hands over soft, silky tops and luxurious leather shoes and boots.
I don’t want to look at my mother’s diary. I don’t know if I’ll like what I find if I finally figure out those mysterious entries.
Cain doesn’t know it’s in here. I tell him everything else. It feels odd hiding this one thing from him.
I take down a heavy, sturdy shoe box and pull out a slim book—my mother’s diary, nestled into paper wrappings I’d repurposed from a pair of leather boots and wrapped around the diary to protect it. It’s been a few weeks since I’ve read it. I sit on the closet floor cross-legged and open it up.
The front of the book is just a normal diary. She talks about my father, but mostly about me. Violet had her first steps today. Violet called me mama. She was an infrequent writer, so the entries are spaced widely apart, the last one just before my fourth birthday. I can’t believe my baby is four.