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)
“And what does he say?” I take several gulps of my lemonade. He has a grand piano in a garage. Sure, it’s peculiar. But to me, it’s also a sign of passion. A love for something so great he can’t bear to be without it.
A soft chuckle bubbles from Eloise’s chest. “Nothing. He just says he’d tell me, but then he’d have to kill me. Such a tease.”
“A tease?” I narrow my eyes, shaking the ice at the bottom of the glass.
“Oh, he’s kidding. Jack wouldn’t harm a fly. I was kidding about him being a serial killer. I’m a good judge of character, and Jack is a kind soul.”
“You think?”
“Yes. Honestly, I’ve wondered if he’s dying. I read a book about a woman who found out she was terminally ill, so she left her family so they didn’t have to suffer with her. Maybe he’s dying.”
My lips twist. “We’re all dying.”
“We are, but my husband said the best thing to do while you’re waiting to die is to live. He had a good life.”
“I like that motto,” I reply sincerely, even though my thoughts have drifted to Jack and his comment about his age and tiredness. Is he dying?
“Can I get you more lemonade?” She pushes back in the glider for momentum to stand.
I shake my head, handing her my empty glass. “I’m good but thank you.”
“No. Thank you for chopping all this wood. I hope it helped with your frustration and grief.”
“It did.”
“You should come to dinner tomorrow night. Jack is coming.”
“That sounds nice. Thanks.”
Eloise plods her way to the house in her Crocs. I consider taking a shower, but I opt for a good distraction that won’t let me focus as much on revenge. I knock a little harder after three knocks on Jack’s door and no answer.
The door swings open, and the shirtless man greets me with a hard sigh. He has a routine.
Workout.
Shower.
Get half dressed.
Play the piano.
“I didn’t get to properly thank you for fixing my toilet,” I smirk, “even if you did pick the lock to do it.”
“Properly thank me?”
The cold air wafting from the garage feels fantastic, so I step inside. “Shut the door. No need to let out all the cold air.”
“I didn’t invite you in.” He glowers while shutting the door.
I ignore his grumpiness. “Properly, formally, whatever. I meant I didn’t get to thank you at all. So …” I fold my hands in front of me. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Is that all?”
“What were you playing?”
“Nothing in particular.”
“Your nothing sounded good.”
He draws a deep breath and releases it while lacing his hands behind his head. “Anything else?”
Sweet Jesus. That pose puts everything in its proper place. I can’t help but stare at his tattoo-covered arms and torso. A few bold black words interspersed with intense colors: roses, hearts, branches, a dragon, numbers aligned in dates, and musical notes.
“I always wanted a tattoo. My brother had a few. But I was too indecisive.” I smile, thinking about John’s tattoos. “His were so random. His first one was PEMDAS because my dad said he needed to tattoo it onto his forearm. John took that as a challenge. He drew it in permanent marker and ended up excelling at math in high school. Of course, our dad told him this when we were fifteen, but it was the first thing my brother did when he was old enough to get a tattoo.” I shake my head. “All for a laugh. He just wanted to make our dad laugh.”
Jack releases his arms, letting them relax at his side. And it’s tiny, but I detect the hint of a smile.
“I know we just met, but Eloise is fond of you, and so am I now that you’ve fixed my toilet, so I want you to know that you can talk to me.”
He stares at me, unimpressed with my offer.
“I mean …” I hug one arm to my chest. “If you have something going on and no one to talk to, I’m a good listener. And I’m good at keeping secrets.”
Jack blinks, offering me nothing but a blank expression. “I’ve killed more people than I can count.”
I don’t move. Not an inch. A blink. A breath.
This is the confession a killer makes before he kills his next victim. After all, if I’m dead, I can’t tell anyone. He knows it. And now I do too. He’s joking. Haha. Right? RIGHT?!
“I mean…” he bounces his head a few times, eyes rolled to the ceiling “…I’m not your brother, but I’m decent with math. It’s not that I can’t count that high. I’m just saying I stopped counting after like … fifteen … twenty.”
I nod as if he’s telling me about a teddy bear he lost as a child.
“Can you keep that secret?” Cocking his head to the side, he narrows his eyes at me.