Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 119597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 478(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 478(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
She was alone through all of it, through the pain, the fear, the loss, and the entire time she thought I didn’t want the baby. Because that’s what I told her. That’s what I believed at the time.
How fucking wrong I was.
How fucking cold and cruel.
She should hate me. How can she even look at me?
“What happened with Gretchen?” Leo flexes his hands.
“She went to that appointment. I dropped her off. She refused to let me go in. We broke up that day. She only cared about my wealth. When I refused to marry her, she returned to Iowa, where she grew up.”
“Denver brought that bitch to the cabin.” Leo flares his nostrils. “I was seven and helped deliver her baby. Denver named him Wolfson.”
My heart plummets to my stomach as a weighty dread floods my circulation.
Wolfson.
My son.
He’s not here.
I have a son, and he’s not fucking here.
The silence is a roar, the darkness a blanket too heavy to lift.
“Where…?” I step forward. “Where is he? Did you leave him behind?”
A strangled noise escapes Leo’s throat. “He committed suicide four months ago.”
Four months ago.
Shock strikes like lightning. My breath staggers.
He was an adult, a twenty-three-year-old man, who spent his entire life with a child molester.
A chilling gale of horror howls through me, stripping away the warmth of my sanity and burying me in the dark with the cold, rotting bones of my failures.
Frankie pulls her knees to her chest and loses her fight with her tears. The agony shattering in her sob is a torment all its own.
“I’m sorry.” Ringing peals in my ears. “I didn’t know.” My lungs collapse. “I’m so fucking sorry.” I slam a hand down on the footboard, sending a sharp crack through the air, as I roar, “Where is Denver?”
Lifting her damp eyes, she holds my stare. “I killed him four months ago. I shot him and beat him with a pipe.”
Standing there, frozen in abhorrence and thwarted by Leo’s protective guardianship, the full measure of her trauma crashes over me.
I can’t avenge the nine months she suffered. I can’t bring back our baby or Wolfson. I can’t comfort her with my body. The divide between us is more than physical space. It’s a gulf of hurt and betrayal with a long road to redemption, if such a path exists at all.
Her tears mark the map of my failings, a painful yet necessary confrontation with the consequences of my actions.
If I had stayed home that day, I could’ve prevented Denver from taking her.
If I had stayed in Port Lions and confronted Denver like a man, if I had killed him myself, I could’ve prevented him from taking all of them, including my son.
Wolfson.
“Growing up, Denver called me Wolf.” My voice is hollow, numb. “The nickname stuck until the night I ordered his death. My parents disowned me, and I disowned them. I severed ties, changed my name, and started a new life. I never wanted to look back.” I look forward, directly to Frankie. “I’m sorry I kept this from you.”
“I understand. I hate it. But I do understand, Monty.” Her features are marred by fatigue, her eyes bloodshot and glistening with tears as she attempts to continue the conversation. “There’s one more thing we need to tell you before you read my journal.”
“You’re done.” Kody steps in, the protective edge in his tone leaving no room for protest as he takes the book from her.
As Leo tucks her into bed, every bone in my body aches with helplessness.
The plane crash that could have claimed her life is written all over her face. Her eyes, so darkly shadowed with pain and exhaustion, flutter in a struggle to remain open. Her strength is fading fast.
Kody steps forward and extends his hand toward me, the journal held between his fingers. I reach for it, but he tightens his grip as if parting with it requires monumental effort.
I get it. This is more than just handing over sensitive information. It’s an act of trust, a bridge being tentatively extended.
Our eyes lock, fraught with everything that transpired and all that remains unsaid. His gaze hardens with challenge, demanding me to honor the faith he’s placing in me by entrusting me with their personal, tragic experiences.
Slowly and with great deliberateness, he loosens his hold on the journal, allowing it to pass into my hands.
The book’s physical weight doesn’t compare to its emotional heft. I’m not just holding a collection of pages. I’m holding a piece of Frankie’s soul and, with it, a key to understanding the ties that bind her to Leo and Kody.
I crack it open, and the pages greet me with the intimacy of her handwriting. The ink bleeds into the paper in some places, indicating the rawness in her strokes.
Her notes and thoughts spill across the pages without order or pattern. Headers tally the days. Some entries are meticulous, others hurried, but all pulsate with the life force of a woman who stared down oblivion and chose to document her journey through hell and back.