Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 79577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
And maybe I’m overreacting.
Liza’s not my enemy. She’d know not to let Sean know where I am. And besides, she didn’t know exactly where to find me. If she had known, I’m sure she’d have come to the house or the shop by now.
Leaving the half-packed duffel, I get back into my car outside to head to the hospital, my anxiety growing as I do. I’m not sure what I’m going to do. I have no plan.
Once I arrive, I park my car and head inside. I walk up to the reception desk and think maybe I should have called instead of showing up here.
“Can I help you?” the middle-aged woman behind reception asks.
Too late now. “I’m looking for Liza Boyd’s room?”
She looks down at her computer screen, punches some keys. “You just missed her,” she says, looking up at me. “Discharged. She’s being moved to a private facility.”
“Oh. You said I just missed her?”
“Yes. Her brother signed her out not half an hour ago and the private—”
“Her brother?” I feel my face drain of color. Feel the weight of cement in the pit of my stomach.
The woman’s smile fades. “Are you all right, hun?”
“You said her brother?”
She looks at her screen again. Nods. “Sean Boyd. I recognize him from TV. Nice guy.”
No.
No, there’s nothing nice about that guy.
I turn in a circle, look around the lobby half expecting him to be here lurking in a corner.
“Miss, are you all right?”
I force my legs to move. Force my knees not to buckle. To hold me upright just a little while longer. Just until I get to my car.
Then I can panic.
There I can collapse.
I’m in a daze as I make my way through the parking lot. Twice cars have to screech their brakes to stop before hitting me.
The button entry doesn’t work on the old Golf anymore and it takes me three tries to get the key into the lock. Three tries before I’m in my car and my hands are on the steering wheel. The lingering garage smell fills my nose. Gasoline and sweat. I should roll down my window.
I force the key into the ignition and start the car, taking a deep breath in before backing out of my spot and getting on the road.
This doesn’t mean he knows about me. Sean being here, it’s not about me. She is his sister. And if she’s involved with people who beat her up, if she’s involved with men like Hawk, I can’t imagine that’s good for Sean. His political ambitions rival his father’s.
Him being here is about that. It’s not about me. This is just damage control.
It’s only when I’m driving away that I think I should have asked which facility Liza was transferred to. I can call and ask, although I doubt they’ll give me that information.
The car behind mine honks their horn and I look up to find the light is green. I drive through the intersection.
It’s fine. I’m fine.
And I need to get to the shop. Deirdre has to leave by one. She babysits her granddaughter almost every afternoon until her daughter, who’s a single mom, gets home.
It’s one of those drives that you have no idea how you got to where you were going but about half an hour later, I’m parked down the street from the shop. I look around when I climb out.
Wrinkles in Time is a second-hand clothing store several blocks off the strip. I inherited it when the owner, Marjorie Adams, an old woman I met when I first moved here, passed away after a long illness.
She asked me to keep it going, explaining it was important work. I had no idea she owned the shop outright or that she gave fifty-percent of any earnings to the homeless shelter. I knew she donated some of it, but I didn’t realize it was half.
I also learned that the other half went to pay me.
Mrs. Adams owned the building, which passed on to her children upon her death, and they were bound by her will to only charge me minimal rent as long as I kept the shop up. I’ve done exactly that for two years.
The bell rings over the door when I enter, and Deirdre is standing behind the counter reading a tattered book. I recognize the title. A dark romance. I think she’s read it about eight times.
“There you are,” she exclaims, checking her watch. “They called from the school and the little munchkin has pinkeye. Can you believe it? Poor kid.”
“Oh, no, that’s lousy. I’d have gotten here sooner if I’d known. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. Pinkeye isn’t the end of the world, but I may not be able to come in tomorrow at all if I have to keep her at home.”
“That’s okay. Just let me know.”
She nods as she collects her purse. “I’ll call you later.”