Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Something is wrong. I sense it in my gut, and I can’t shake the slightly queasy feeling.
I take a breath and tell myself I’m being silly. Franklin is mistaken. There’s no way Dane lives in the house across the street from our building.
An image flashes through my mind: Dane’s living room the first time I ever came here. It was so clean. Sterile.
Like no one lived here.
It’s different now. There are coasters on the coffee table downstairs, and a few crumbs litter the counter, despite Dane’s fastidious nature.
Maybe I’m just messy, and I’ve made his house a little less tidy.
I’m being ridiculous. Dane will come back soon, and he’ll explain everything.
I decide to text him.
When do you think you’ll be back? How’s it going with Ron?
My phone pings seconds later with his reply.
Everything is fine. I’m sure Ron and I will come to an understanding. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Don’t worry, pet. I’ll handle this.
My heart sinks.
But he’s not with Ron. He’s not at my building. Franklin just checked.
Dane is lying to me.
I shake my head. This is getting out of control, and I’m on the verge of spiraling.
I can clear this up easily enough. I’ll just go to the powder blue house and find out who really lives there. Then, I’ll come back here, and Dane will be waiting for me.
I look at his text again. He didn’t say that he’s with Ron right now. Just that they’ll come to an understanding.
It’s vague and a bit cryptic, now that I’m reading it with greater scrutiny.
Gathering my resolve, I open the app to call a car and head downstairs. Within minutes, I’m riding across town, back to my neighborhood.
I stare at Dane’s text during the short drive:
I’ll handle this.
I recall the way his eyes went ice cold when he threatened Ron in the laundry room.
Use that language with her again, and you’ll end up with a broken jaw.
At the time, I’d swooned for his protectiveness. But now, I can’t stop thinking about the dangerous glint in his eyes. How his face had gone blank and unnervingly devoid of emotion.
My stomach is churning by the time the car stops in front of the powder blue house. I straighten my shoulders and force myself to walk at a normal pace. I climb the three steps up to the wooden porch and ring the doorbell.
I note that the lights aren’t on inside, but it’s still bright enough out that the sunshine illuminates the space. There’s a narrow, vertical window to the left of the front door. When no one answers the second ring of the bell, I press my face closer to the glass and peer inside.
I stop breathing. I recognize the painting that’s hanging in the front hall. It’s one of mine.
I swallow against the burn of bile at the back of my throat and reason that locals sometimes buy my art, not just tourists.
My footsteps are heavy with dread as I walk farther down the porch so that I can look into the larger window with a view into the living room.
My landscapes cover the walls. There must be a dozen of them crowding the small room.
Fear tingles down my spine.
This isn’t right. I don’t understand what’s happening, what this means.
A wild, reckless impulse overtakes me, and suddenly, there’s a rock in my hand. It smashes through the rectangular window beside the front door. I reach through the jagged hole I made and unlock the door from the inside. Broken glass scores my wrist, but I barely feel the sting of the cut.
I feel like I’m floating outside of my body, like this is happening to someone else.
The front door swings open, and I walk through the house in a daze, taking in my familiar style that’s mounted on every single white wall. Otherwise, the space is unfurnished except for a small kitchen table.
And the bedroom.
The cramped space is dominated by a king-size bed, but I can’t focus on that. More of my paintings hang on the walls. They’re all images of storms.
That’s why you favor the storms.
Dane knew so much about my work when we talked on the beach that day.
How did he know?
I sink down onto the mattress as my knees give out. My fists tangle in expensive sheets, as though I’m desperate to cling onto something solid, something real.
Because none of this seems real.
It can’t be.
I suck in three deep breaths and force myself to think. There’s nothing tying Dane to this place. Franklin thinks he’s seen him in the neighborhood, but that’s not proof that Dane lives here.
I grip the sheets more tightly, and my fingers clamp down on something soft and familiar.
A soft cry of pure horror bursts from my lips when I see my paint-splattered camisole in my fist. The one I thought I’d lost in the laundry.