Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 107166 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 536(@200wpm)___ 429(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107166 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 536(@200wpm)___ 429(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
I find that where this woman is involved, I’m possessed.
Her car starts to head toward the right—she’s exiting—and I follow as she’s taking the turn toward the water.
She’s heading to the small town of Reddington.
I know my way, but regardless of that, I continue to follow her, staying far enough back for her not to be spooked.
From where I lag behind, I notice she is slowing to a stop, and that’s when I pick up the phone again, but this time it’s to call Jaxson Price.
“Who lives at 777 Martel Road?” I don’t bother with hellos. Time is money, so the faster I get the information I need, the faster I can move on with my life.
A small, pesky voice tells me I didn’t need to follow her to find out all this information, but I tell that voice to shut the fuck up.
“Hold.” The line goes quiet before Jax is back on. “The home is registered to Detective Matthews.”
“And the relationship between Skye Matthews and the detective?”
“I have adoption papers here.”
Interesting. Skye Matthews . . . you were adopted by a local hero. You are her.
“Send me everything. I want to know every single thing about Ms. Matthews. Her birthday. Where she went to school, her favorite color, how she takes her coffee, you understand, Jax?”
“On it.”
From where I’m parked, I watch the house. “So, this is where you grew up, Skye?” I say to myself.
I’m not sure what I’m expecting, but it certainly isn’t her dashing to her car fifteen minutes later.
Interesting.
Something tells me her father didn’t know she came up for a visit today. What were you doing here, Ms. Matthews?
She starts to drive, and I follow her. Since I’ve committed to stalking, I might as well go all the way. I have to admit, this level of obsession isn’t a good character trait, but I’m too curious to care.
You don’t spend more than two decades searching for someone without becoming a little obsessed.
Seeing her at this house makes me think of the past. Of all those years ago when we met.
Then my hands on my steering wheel are gripping it tightly. How could you not remember me?
The thought pisses me the fuck off. I never forgot her. Not for one moment. Not after all these years later. She’s always been on my mind. And me? I’m just another page in her bloodied story.
Not for long, Ms. Matthews.
Soon enough, you will become reacquainted with me.
A few minutes later, Skye is pulling up to a small cemetery. Throwing my car into park, I observe her, she’s got a bouquet of flowers in her hand. She’s walking up a small hill and standing in front of two tombstones.
She’s not there long, but what she does next has me quirking my brow. Skye is walking toward a large oak tree.
I squint my eyes.
Why is she kneeling beside it?
That’s when I notice there is something sticking out of the ground. From where I’m at, it appears like a small white stick. Maybe a cross?
It’s out of place. At least twenty feet from the nearest grave. It’s tucked behind a tree.
No one would see it. Unless you knew to look for it.
Tapping my hands on the steering wheel, I wait for her to leave. My curiosity has gotten the better of me. Five minutes later, I’m able to investigate. She’s left, and despite my desire to continue my pursuit, I need to know why she was kneeling on the ground.
Shutting my car off, I head in the direction from which she came.
When I’m at the location, I see that I’m correct. There is a makeshift white cross shoved into the dirt. It looks like a child made it in an art class. It doesn’t fit in here.
The edges aren’t cut perfectly, and the paint is weathered and chipped. It’s old. How old, though, is the question.
Despite the age of the cross, the area does look well maintained. It’s clean of fallen branches and leaves. The only thing near the cross is one purple flower. It looks like it hasn’t bloomed yet.
I grab it in my hand and head back to my car. Once inside, I snap a picture and send it to Gideon. The flower must be important for some reason because it didn’t look anything like the larger bouquet she placed on the other graves. That has to mean something.
Me: What is this?
Gideon: A flower?
Me: No shit, dick. I know it’s a flower. What kind?
Gideon: Do I look like a botanist?
Me: Make yourself one for the occasion, asshole.
Next, I text Trent. If anyone will know, it’s him. His mom and sister are obsessed with flowers for some reason.
I text the same message I texted Gideon . . .
Me: What type of flower is this?
Trent: No hello? No how are you? What kind of chocolate I like? Godiva, by the way.