Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 108165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
I was an accomplished music professor.
Happily single.
Perfectly content.
Now, I’m unemployed.
Pining for a dark, brooding guy named Jack who lives in a garage with a piano.
And I’m plotting to seduce a married man because his daughter is responsible for my nephew committing suicide.
I don’t know why teenage girls are so mean.
I don’t know why rich men cheat on their wives.
And I don’t know why Jack has serial killer vibes, even though he leaves me speechless every time he speaks.
All I know for sure is that I feel safe in a stranger’s arms and understood by someone I don’t understand.
“You should be a little scared of everyone because humans are unpredictable.”
How far will I go for revenge? More than that …
How far will he go to save me?
*This book contains material involving sexual assault and suicide. Reader discretion is advised.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
PLAYLIST
“Cleanse” Boatkeeper
“Love Is The Answer” Natalie Taylor
“Kingdom Come” The Neighborly
“Have You Ever Seen The Rain” MR. RACER
“Deep Dark Sleep” Melanie MacLaren
“I’m Worried It Will Always Be You” Katie Gregson-MacLeod
“Wings” Birdy
“Secret Garden” Molly Parden, Tony Anderson
“Blue Moon Revisited (Song for Elvis)” Cowboy Junkies
“Sweet Jane” Cowboy Junkies
“The Heart Asks Pleasure First” Michael Nyman
“Voyage dans la lune” Sad Piano Music Collective
“Outside, Alone” Peter Gregson
“Ironic” Davis Naish, AG
“Liebestraum (Love Dream)” Franz Liszt, Michael Krücker
“Claire de Lune” London Symphony Orchestra
“Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2” Frédéric Chopin, Olga Bordas
To my Jackson fans … this is the end.
CHAPTER ONE
FRANCESCA
There’s nothing notable about Boone, Kansas, other than the unkempt graveyard shrouded by cottonwoods where my brother, his wife, and their only child now rest. They moved from Chicago to give their son a better life.
Had they known how “better” would play out, they might have been more inclined to overlook the ninety-minute crawl to work or the occasional vandalism.
Now, their little family of three has a one hundred percent death rate. I’m not sure that’s the definition of a better life, especially given that all three deaths were suicides.
A one-way street lines the tiny town square of crumbling brick buildings still home to a few local businesses that have stood the test of time. Murals line the alleys, a youthful touch to something old. I repeat my trip around the weathered square five times in the June sun before taking a brave breath and turning on my blinker to make a right down one of the more abandoned streets in the town.
My brother John and his wife, Lynn, chose this house because they liked the oversized lot, minimal traffic, and abundant mature trees. Never mind the century-old homes with splintered siding, curling shingles, and crooked shutters. Our mom took one look and whispered, “It’s horrific,” while my brother, simultaneously, sighed contentedly and said, “It’s perfect.” He envisioned endless possibilities, and Mom saw nothing but a never-ending series of headaches in what our dad called “a thirty-year mortgage on a poor decision.”
The irony? We grew up on a rundown farm in Iowa, where subsidies paid the rent.
Who could blame John for loving the place and the nostalgia that came with it. The house backs up to a cornfield, reminiscent of the days John and I hid from our parents. John mapped out a maze while I foraged for supplies in case we needed to hide out for days while our parents argued over money and who bore more responsibility for parenting.
John and I were inseparable, not just because we were twins. We complemented each other perfectly—my weaknesses were his strengths, and his were mine. We always said we were accidental twins, meant to be one person. Instead, we were two out-of-balance humans: either extremely good at something or extremely bad. John could barely spell his name but knew Pi to … infinity. On the other hand, I poured over every book I could get my greedy little hands on and fell in love with Chopin long before I was old enough to need a bra. But if you asked me if two times two equaled four, I had to think about it for several seconds because eight seemed like a good option too.
The gravel crunches beneath my tires while I roll to a stop. I haven’t been here since the funeral. I’d convinced myself it was nothing more than a nightmare. If I waited long enough, I’d wake up.
No such luck.
I knock on the warped wooden frame of the neighbor’s screen door. (She has a key to their house.) It makes squeaky grunts while decaying boards creak with every tiny shift of my weight. I’m impatient to get this done so I can go home—anywhere that feels less real than Boone Fucking Kansas.
When Eloise doesn’t answer, I glance at my watch. I’m an hour later than I planned. Stopping for lunch and procrastinating in the town square didn’t help.
Dark, rich notes of hammering piano keys drift from her oversized two-car garage. It’s a bonus garage behind the one-car attached to the house. I stroll along the cracked sidewalk under the maple trees to the access door, easing it ajar while poking my head through the opening. There’s a black BMW sedan, weights, a hanging punching bag in the corner, and a man sitting at a grand piano with his back to me.