Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 71212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 356(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 356(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
Tristan and I were the last to leave. I looked back at the massive glass-and-stone mansion that had served as our brief hideout, tall green trees highlighted by moonlight smothering it. The drive was silent. Tristan didn’t even ask where we were going, only speaking when I pulled into the brick driveway.
“Where are we?” he asked, looking out at the modest one-floor farmhouse.
“Home,” I said, hitting a button on my car’s dash and opening the garage door.
11
TRISTAN HALL
“Home,” Gabriel said as the garage door loudly rose to reveal a very well-organized space big enough to fit one car and a few bikes. I’d been so lost in my thoughts I hadn’t really focused on where Gabriel had been taking us, so I was slightly surprised to see that we were at his house.
“I didn’t realize you had a house in Atlanta. I thought you were from New York?”
He shook his head as he pulled into his parking spot. “I lived there for a few years—it’s how I started working with Stonewall Investigations—but I’ve always had a home base here in Atlanta. It’s one of the reasons Zane assigned me to your case. I was born and raised in Marietta.”
“Huh,” I said, looking around at the quiet neighborhood. It was a street full of flipped homes with clean white exteriors and bold-colored trims. Porches that were well maintained and fences that needed no repairs. It was silent except for the low din of a TV coming from an open window.
“Come, let’s get inside. I’ve got a nice bottle of wine waiting for us.”
“What’s the occasion?” I asked and followed him to the front door.
“Life being shit is the occasion.”
I chuckled at that. Gabriel unlocked his front door and stepped inside, tapping a series of numbers into the beeping alarm.
Instantly, the sweet scent of fresh flowers bloomed all around me. I noticed he had a couple of diffusers and a Glade plug-in close to the door. He kicked off his sneakers and placed them on a neatly organized shoe rack. I followed suit, rolling in my suitcase and setting it to the side. Gabriel shut and locked the door and set the alarm back on.
“Your place is beautiful,” I said, taking it in for the first time. A mixture of modern decor and some slightly more dated touches. There was a trendy brown leather couch on a fluffy white rug that felt like a puffy cloud under my toes. The entertainment center was a scratched-up brown unit that could have used a little upgrade, but I didn’t blame him for spending that money on the massive TV that took up most of the wall, a sound system flanking it and turning the living room into an immersive theatre. A couple of paintings hung on the wall, a mixture of what appeared to be oil and watercolor, creating an interesting dynamic that made the landscapes appear as if they were shifting whenever I moved.
“And these are just stunning,” I said, admiring the painting closest to me.
“Thank you,” he said, stepping beside me. I could almost feel an electrical current zapping off his forearm, tickling at mine.
But no. We need to keep things cool between us.
“I painted these a few years ago.”
My jaw dropped, and my head turned to him as if on a swivel. “You made these?”
“You don’t have to look so surprised,” Gabriel said, bushy brow arched and a smile half-cocked on his face. “You’re not the only creative one here.”
I stammered, realizing how rude I’d just sounded. “That’s not, no, I just mean—”
“I’m teasing you. I know it’s a little surprising. A brush in my hand probably looks like an elephant holding a stick.”
“A silverback, actually.” Tristan shot me a wink.
“How did you know I was graying back there?” I gave an exaggerated crane of my neck as if I were checking under my shirt. He started to laugh, giving me that sound I was getting so fucking attached to.
“Well, these are beautiful. Really, Gabe. The way you play with different mediums and make it all flow together is insane to me.”
“Same as the way you put together all those different words and make it a coherent story. Now, that’s insane.” He cocked his head, eyes searching mine. For what, I wasn’t sure, but I allowed it. “Have you been working on anything recently?”
Ah, there it was. The question that I’d grown to hate over the last couple of months. I used to be able to answer that with an enthusiastic yes, launching into quick elevator pitches of whatever books I had been writing at the time. The passion would ooze out of me, the words flowing like a babbling brook, unable to keep quiet for long. My muse had always worked overtime, causing me to frequently pause conversations and jot something down in my Notes app as a new story element developed out of thin air.