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’ve never felt so weak in my life. Not when my brother and his family died. Not when Archer pinned me to his piano. Not when Jack begged me to tell him about that night.
There was this wall of false confidence that I’d constructed to keep everything in check. If I said I was fine, then I was fine. Mind over matter. The past died. And Jack was my future. That’s all that mattered.
I didn’t believe in ghosts. I reconciled everything that had happened into manageable compartments in my mind. Then I closed the doors to the compartments that held the horrific memories. Problem solved.
Until everything blew up in less than sixty seconds.
I reach for my spoon, but my hand shakes too much to grip it, so I fold my hands in my lap, squeezing them tightly until I no longer feel them shaking. Every time I close my eyes, I see Archer hovering above me. In the next breath, I see the scattered photos of Jack’s victims on the library floor.
Sleep evades me at every turn. I’m painfully tired, almost nauseous from it, but I can’t sleep. The second I begin to doze off, I wake with a gasp, my heart racing, my lungs starving for my next breath. Anxiety and panic attacks have me held hostage in my own home.
Is this how John felt? Utterly broken? Useless? Helpless? Hopeless?
I don’t want to die, but I’ve lost my way and no longer know how to live. The shame is crippling. I don’t know what to do or who to call. My parents know nothing, less than nothing. My friend list is empty at the moment. And Jack’s too emotionally invested. This would crush him.
Dr. West would be a possibility if I could leave the house, but I can’t. The last time Jack tried contacting me, it took forever to steady my voice to make my words sound believable. He doesn’t know I had barricaded myself in the closet to feel brave enough to speak. To lie.
That’s what my life has become: one big lie.
I shuffle my feet past the piano, but I can’t touch it. I can’t look at it, so I cover it with several blankets. Then I go back to bed.
CHAPTER FIFTY
JACKSON
Jackson called to confirm Frankie’s speaking engagement at Curtis, but there was no speaking engagement. And she’s gone silent on him again. No returning his texts. No answering her phone.
His plane lands just after noon on Monday, and he takes a cab to the university. When he gets to her office, a young brunette greets him with a wide smile.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
“I’m here to see Francesca Holter.” He cranes his neck to see into her office, but the blinds are closed.
“I’m sorry. Professor Holter won’t be back until next semester.”
Jackson’s face scrunches. “Are you sure?”
She nods.
“Why?”
“She’s taken a leave of absence for personal reasons. That’s all I know.”
Jackson stares at her name on the door. “Thanks,” he murmurs.
When he arrives at her house, all of the blinds are closed, and he doesn’t detect any lights are on. He’s pretty sure she’s not here. Perhaps something happened to one of her parents. But why would she keep that from him?
He knocks on her front door and rings the doorbell. No answer. Making his way down her driveway, he gets a feeling that he can’t explain. Taking another step away from her house feels all wrong.
Everything about this feels wrong.
Retracing his steps, he rings the doorbell several more times and bangs on the door. Then, he makes his way to the back of the house. Again, all the blinds are closed, and there’s no detectable light. The French door is old. He remembers the wind howling through its cracks from his visit because it’s warped. With one kick, the door springs open.
The house is dark and silent. He flips on a light. A whole bowl of oatmeal is on the table, but it’s dry like it’s been sitting there for a while. His piano is covered in blankets. And everything feels terribly wrong.
Jackson creeps down the hallway toward her bedroom, peeking into the hallway bathroom first. Her bedroom door is closed, and the handle’s locked. He makes a fist to knock but stops because … it’s all fucking wrong. He doesn’t want to give someone who shouldn’t be here any sort of warning. So he kicks open her bedroom door.
It, too, is dark. Her bed is unmade. But there’s no sign of her. He checks her bathroom.
Nothing.
There’s no lock on her closet door, but it’s closed. Jackson slowly turns the handle and opens it. He flips on the light.
Nothing.
As he goes to turn off the light, he sees something move out of the corner of his eye. There’s a foot beneath a pile of clothes under a section of hanging dresses. His gaze slowly moves over the pile of clothes and stops on the tip of a knife pointed outward, shaking.