Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
His catheter bag was emptied at the end of my work shift, and it looks like his outputs are still good.
I resist running my fingers down his cheek against the scruff there.
I shaved his face a couple of days ago, but it looks like he’s in need of another meeting with the razor.
Brent Porter was tasked with keeping an eye on one of the homicide detectives who works for the Farmington Police Department when he was injected with some form of GHB. It took forever for medics to get a heartbeat once they found him outside of her house.
Lennox Maison was the detective who had to fight the serial killer off before ultimately killing him, after he hid out in her house. The same man had killed her sister fifteen years ago, along with another woman.
From what I heard, Bishop just had really shitty luck because another one of the Cerberus guys was also injected and didn’t suffer the same cardiac arrest. Doctors don’t know how long Bishop was down or what kind of damage it may have done. His brain scans are good, but there’s no real explanation as to why the man hasn’t woken up yet.
“Remember I told you about my mom?” I ask as if he’ll answer me. “She had the nerve to tell me that Travis deserved a second chance, that Ryder deserves to have a father in his life. Did she forget that the man put his own son in danger?”
I walk around to the other side of the bed, grabbing the fingernail clippers from the drawer in the small bedside table.
“Let’s not forget that she hated the man when I met him in high school. I deserved better back then, but now that we’re living with her, she’s really quick to tell me about all the mistakes I’ve made.”
I shake my head like he’s actually paying attention to me.
“Did she forget that I didn’t have a father growing up? She doesn’t tell me these things in a learn-from-my-mistakes kind of way, but in a way where she acts like she can’t believe what a screwup I am.”
I place a clean hand towel under his left hand and begin trimming his nails.
It’s sort of cathartic to let all of this spill out. It’s not like Bishop is ever going to tell my secrets.
Chapter 2
Bishop
“You’re okay?”
“I’m fine, Brent. How many times are we going to go over it?”
“You fell,” I mutter, wondering if I’m actually overreacting, but I don’t think caring about my wife is a bad thing. It’s my duty, regardless of if she’s annoyed with the added attention right now.
She rolls her eyes. “I tripped over that damn motorcycle. If he leaves it out one more time, I’m going to call the police.”
I huff a laugh, but she doesn’t grin. “He’s just a boy, Angeline. Cut him some slack.”
“He knows better. I’ve told him a million times to put his toys up where they belong.”
“I’ll chat with him,” I promise, heading out of the kitchen.
The hallway to his room seems like a million miles away, and his voice reaches me faster than I can make it to his door.
“I just don’t want to be here.”
I raise an eyebrow, confused who he could be talking to.
“You have to stay quiet,” a woman’s voice says. “He’s sleeping and we don’t want to disturb him.”
Calmness settles over me, but it doesn’t last long.
Fear threatens to sink inside of me, and I have no idea what’s causing this sense of unease to wash over me.
What I do know from being in the Marine Corps is that this sixth sense is a warning, and not listening to it is how you end up going home in a body bag.
As if I’m walking through sludge, it takes forever for me to reach the bedroom door. And maybe, I realize when I open the door, it’s exactly what I wasn’t supposed to do.
My son is nowhere to be found. The room is empty. The only thing visible from where I’m standing is a sliver of light under a door on the far side.
The noises hit me first, much like they did when I turned down the hallway, hearing my son talk to someone.
At first it’s moans and then a few hushed whispers, but as I cross the room, the rhythmic slapping sounds make it very clear what’s happening on the other side of the door.
I know those noises. I’ll never forget what she sounds like when she’s lost in her own pleasure.
But when I open the door, I don’t find my wife alone in our bed with her hands buried between her legs. There’s no room for them because of the man on his knees there.
I swallow back bile as her face turns in my direction, her short hair matted to her forehead with sweat.