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)
“Oh! Wait! Are you okay?” Molly’s technician says in a panic, dropping the polish bottle in the soaking tub when Molly and her half-polished toes flee toward the back of the salon.
She doesn’t make it to the restroom before hurling all over the floor, her legs, and her pretty purple-polished toes.
Poor thing.
When my technician gives me a wide-eyed gaze, I offer an innocent half-smile and stare at my fingernails. “You know … I think we should do a French manicure instead of the red you’re using on my toes. What do you think?”
She’s not thinking. Molly’s caused too much commotion, not to mention the mess of upchucked coffee and what appears to be bits of scrambled eggs.
Gross. She must be so embarrassed. I bet she never returns to this salon. That’s too bad.
I lean back, close my eyes, and think of my wildly successful start to the day. Next, I’ll grab lunch. Maybe a massage. And I might even pick up something for dinner and invite Eloise to eat with me.
By late afternoon, my wild success screeches to a halt when I return to the house.
The fire engines.
The remains of my brother’s house—a charred skeleton with a few areas still smoldering.
What happened? WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?
I sprint toward the house, eyes burning with tears.
“Frankie!” Eloise reaches for my arm.
I whip around. “What happened? Who … w-what?” I stab my hands through my hair as my voice cracks. The photos. The things I set aside for the rest of the family. It’s … gone.
“I just got home too. I was getting ready to call you.”
I shake my head. I can’t tear my gaze from the sight before me. It’s just … not possible. “What caused it?” I stutter a few words while dragging my feet closer to the house.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry. You’ll have to stay back. Is this your house?”
“No.” Then it hits me. “Sort of,” I whisper.
The fire chief introduces himself and asks me a handful of questions. I answer on instinct. I can’t focus enough to understand what’s happening or what I’m saying. When he glances over my shoulder, I follow his gaze to the black BMW pulling into the garage.
My body reacts without thought, and I run toward the garage, limboing under the door before it shuts.
Jack steps out of his car.
All I see is red as I hurl my fist into his face. “What did you do?” I scream.
His head barely flinches from the impact of my punch, but I feel it up my arm to my shoulder.
“You can’t make me leave by burning down my fucking house!” I grab his shirt and attempt to shake him.
He’s unmovable. Face blank. Eyes blinking slowly.
“E-everything that was l-left of them w-was in there.” I release him and bat away my hot, angry tears.
He is a murderer and a monster, and his lack of emotion or response only angers me more. I shove him with both hands and throw another punch. He catches my fist in the palm of his hand.
“Calm the fuck down. I didn’t burn down your house. Maybe you left the stove on. Maybe—”
He’s mocking me. I’m not stupid.
“I didn’t leave the stove on! I didn’t leave anything plugged in. That is arson. And the only person who wants me to leave that badly…” I point toward the fire “… is YOU.”
He scratches his scruffy jaw and twists his lips. “You sure about that?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Turning, he dismissively walks away from me, retrieving an apple from the brown paper bag on his sofa. “I don’t know, Francesca. What does it mean?” he asks calmly before biting the apple. “A jilted lover? A wife who thinks you’re fucking her husband?”
He’s calling me a whore without saying the actual words. His indifference is infuriating. Is this a joke to him? A game?
I shuffle my feet several steps and snatch a crowbar hanging from a hook on the wall beside a handful of other tools. I’m done. Jack has lost it. His mysteriousness is no longer intriguing. He’s playing me. And I am done.
“What the fuck—” Jack drops his apple and flies toward me, but not before the crowbar lands on the top of his piano, splintering the polished black wood. I feel like a Christian burning the Bible, a soldier burning the flag. But sometimes, that’s the only way to make a statement.
Whoosh!
The air leaves my lungs.
I’ve never been flat on my back, pinned to the ground so quickly. Not by an impatient lover. Not by my self-defense instructor. Not even when I slipped on ice in the university parking lot and split open the back of my head.
In the next second, I’m on my stomach with my wrists shackled in his steely grip. “So it’s okay that things that matter to me are destroyed, but your precious piano is untouchable? Let me go! Hel—”