Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 162003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 810(@200wpm)___ 648(@250wpm)___ 540(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 810(@200wpm)___ 648(@250wpm)___ 540(@300wpm)
Ryland groaned as he flipped me onto my back and began to pulse inside of me with the smallest of movements while he kissed every inch of my face. The room was still dark, save for the light of the moon that spilled in through the curtain. And in that darkness, I felt safe with him. Safe to let myself be vulnerable in his arms.
He spent the rest of the night inside of me, savoring every moment as if it were a gift. When he finally collapsed and pulled me into his arms, I asked him again the question that haunted me.
“Why me, Ryland?”
He kissed me on the forehead and gave me the same answer he had before as he pulled me closer. “It could only ever be you.”
The sun was coming up, but I wasn’t tired, and by the pattern of his breathing he wasn’t going to sleep either. Still, I hadn’t expected him to speak, so when he did, it surprised me.
“Sometimes I ask myself the same thing,” he admitted. “It was logical for me to choose you, but I didn’t think I wanted to. Everything changed when I saw you that day. When I learned everything there was to know about you.”
“You couldn’t possibly know everything about me,” I replied. “Only what you’ve seen on paper.”
“Try me,” he suggested.
“Okay…” I mulled this over for a moment before asking him the dumbest question I could think of. “How do I take my pancakes?”
“With peanut butter and powdered sugar. A disgusting combination by the way.”
I stared at him with my mouth gaping as I processed his words. “How could you possibly know that?”
“I told you.” He shrugged. “I know everything there is to know about you, Brighton.”
“That isn’t true,” I argued, desperate to prove my point. “You can’t know my thoughts. My feelings.”
He was quiet for a moment before he conceded. “I suppose there is one thing I don’t know.”
“What?”
“Whether you still think I’m a monster or not.”
His voice was distant again, but I didn’t let it affect me or my response. I’d been vulnerable enough to him already tonight, and this little game he was playing was a very real reminder of our circumstances.
“Does it matter what I think?” I turned the words back around on him.
There was a long pause before he answered. “It shouldn’t.”
I didn’t have time to think of a response because a moment later he kissed me on the cheek and rolled out of bed.
“I’m going for a run,” he said. “Get some sleep, Brighton.”
***
I sat out on the back porch, sipping a steaming cup of hot coffee. The fog from the bay rolled off the water and into the back yard, completing the eery feeling of this house.
Ryland had been gone for over two hours, and I couldn’t sleep without him. I didn’t bother venturing up to the third level again because it was too creepy to consider.
I didn’t understand how he could spend any time here alone. The sorrow that surrounded this house was deep and profound, and I wondered why Ryland would even own a place like this. The more I uncovered about him, the more I was convinced that something horrible happened in his past.
Before I could stop myself, I pulled up google on my phone. But instead of typing in Ryland’s name, I typed in something else that I was certain I never would again.
Lockhart Family in Chicago.
Article after article flooded the results, and I hovered over them with a hesitant finger. I didn’t want to see their faces. To see the entire family my brother had eradicated. But I couldn’t stop myself this time.
I skipped over the articles about the accident and moved to the biographical information. I focused my search efforts on the only remaining survivor, Michael Lockhart. The patriarch of the family and a well-loved businessman, he seemed for all intents and purposes to have the perfect life. His business was based out of Chicago, but it stated he was from California originally. It would have been a little too coincidental for my liking if it weren’t for the next piece of information I stumbled on.
I was surprised to learn his life had also been cut short not long after the accident.
Michael Lockhart, age 49 passed away from a self-inflicted gunshot wound. The shocking news comes only six months after the death of his wife Katherine and children Jackson and Sophia in a tragic hit and run…
My stomach knotted, and bile rose in my throat. I didn’t want to know anymore. I couldn’t.
Then as if the universe had a sick sense of humor, my cell phone rang a God-awful tone, making me wince.
“Hello?” I answered wearily.
Norma-Jean and I didn’t talk very often. So if she was calling, there must be a good reason.
“Brighton, it’s your… it’s Norma-Jean,” she replied in her gravelly tone.