Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 85876 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85876 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Anger that was pure rage a few days ago when I got a call from a woman telling me that my wife was sleeping with her husband.
I was not surprised when she told me about the affair. Naomie’s and my relationship has been on the rocks for a couple of years now. And shit only got worse when she came home months back and admitted to me that she went to my brother Clay for comfort after miscarrying our child and that she tried to kiss him. I was angry and stupidly placed the blame on him instead of directing it toward her. I let my own grief convince me it was his fault, that she was vulnerable, and he took advantage of her in that moment.
I’m not even hurt by her betrayal. Again, our marriage has been coming to an end, and she’s known I’ve had one foot out the door for months.
No, I’m pissed that she would fuck a man who has a wife and kid, because without a doubt, she knew that shit going in. She’d want to know who her competition was and exactly what she was up against when it came to getting what she wanted. Whatever that might be. She’s not a stupid woman; every move with her is calculated.
Shit, there are times I wonder if she played me from the start, that our chance meeting wasn’t by chance at all, instead a set-up she engineered. A long game that didn’t quite go as planned, since my brother, Clay, who she might’ve actually been after, didn’t take the bait of jealousy she was dangling in front of him.
My cell vibrating drags me from my thoughts, and I pull it out of my pocket, checking the screen. Finding a text from one of my other brothers, Miles, telling me to call him, I tuck my phone away and slide my chair back away from the table.
“You’re not leaving, are you?” Naomie asks, and I drop my eyes to her hand, biting back the curl of my lip when she grabs onto my wrist.
“I gotta make a call.”
“Are you going to at least come back and dance with me?” She pouts.
“I’m sure you’ll find someone else to dance with.” I leave the table after a couple of chin-lifts to the men sitting with their women and head out of the ballroom. When I get outside, I dial Miles and put my phone to my ear.
“Sorry to pull you away from tonight, but I just got a call from a detective out in Madison County, and the body of a teenage girl just showed up in his jurisdiction.”
Fuck.
“Have they been able to ID her?”
“Not yet, but her description matches Kristen Stable,” he says quietly, and my hand balls into a fist.
Kristen, the seventeen-year-old girl with a history of running away, was reported missing by her mom two weeks ago. With her history, the cops who took the report didn’t take her mom seriously when she told the officers that this time was different. When the case landed on my desk, I knew she was right. Like most kids today, Kristen had an obsession with her phone and a couple of the apps on it. She was constantly posting videos on a regular cycle throughout the day. The day she disappeared, all activity stopped, and her phone was turned off.
“Cause of death?”
“Unknown. She was found in the woods, and you know how that goes.”
“Yeah.” My jaw clenches. “Are you headed out there?”
“Leaving the city now.”
“I’ll meet you there,” I tell him.
“I got this. I’ll fill you in tomorrow.”
“I’ll meet you there.” I hang up before he can repeat his earlier statement, then tuck my phone away and head back inside to let Naomie know I’m taking off as a courtesy. Something I’d normally do but have no desire to do now.
With dinner now over, the dance floor is packed, and music is filling the huge room. I scan the space for Naomie, but my eyes catch on Bowie’s wife sitting alone at her table with her eyes across the room. Even with her expression void of emotion, I can tell in one glance that she’s doing her best to keep herself together. Following her gaze, I find Naomie and Bowie huddled closer together than a man and a woman who are married to other people should be.
When I look back to where Bowie’s wife was, she’s no longer at the table, but I catch a glimpse of her right before she disappears out a set of glass doors on the left side of the room.
I know I shouldn’t follow.
I know I should just let her be.
But my feet carry me in her direction anyway. Exactly like they did earlier this evening before I even knew who she was.
When I push through the door she walked through, I realize they lead out to a covered patio with loungers and chairs set up around gas fireplaces. I scan through the dim light and find her leaning into a glass banister that overlooks some of the city. She looks like a still shot from an old movie with her curvy body encased in green silk, her full red lips, and her smokey gaze staring off into nothing as her long hair falls down her back in waves of gold. Taking my cigarette pack out of my pocket, I pull one out and light it as I walk toward her.