Total pages in book: 142
Estimated words: 129955 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 650(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129955 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 650(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
It’s just after ten when I bring my bike to a stop a few houses down from Irene and Kurt’s place, and the first thing I find myself doing is scanning the street for one of Sam’s vans. I have to play this smart. There’s a good possibility that Kurt has already reached out to Sam and there’s a strong chance that I’m about to crawl back through that stupid bedroom window to find a black bag pulled over my head again.
With the street empty and Irene’s car missing from the driveway, I hide my bike in the shadows of a neighbor’s home. I slip into their backyard and steal a large black shirt off the washing line, before hurrying up the road.
I stand before the house that’s going to change it all, the nerves sinking heavily into my gut.
I can do this. I have to do this.
It’s either me or him.
Not one for repeating my mistakes, I slip around the opposite side of the house until I come to the small bathroom window. Taking a breath, I wrap the black shirt around my fist, and mentally prepare myself.
This is it. It’s now or fucking never.
As I let out my breath, I slam my fist into the glass and move fast. If he heard me, he’d be off his dirty couch and already coming to investigate. I break the rest of the glass, making sure there’s enough space for me to slip through without cutting myself, then the second I can, I lay the shirt over the windowsill and press my hands to it before hauling myself up and over.
I go crashing down into the bathroom, landing on the broken glass, but Cruz’s baggy clothes save me from being cut up.
Getting to my feet, I grab the shirt and shake any broken glass out of it while listening for Kurt. There’s no sound coming from within the house, and I let out another breath before putting my hand inside the shirt and grabbing the door handle, being extra cautious about my fingerprints.
I get the door open and hold my breath as it squeaks through the quiet house. I pause, my heart racing a million miles an hour, but at this point, I don’t know if it’s from fear or the adrenaline.
Wanting to get this over with so I can get the fuck out of here, I take the short five steps up the hall, passing the room where I was first abducted, and do my best not to dwell on it. If anything, it only spurs me on, reminding me just how badly I can’t go back there.
I make my way out to the kitchen and peer around the corner to find Kurt sitting back in his favorite recliner couch, feet up, watching his brand new big TV in the dark. An almost empty bottle of whisky hangs from between his fingers, with two empty bottles already thrown across the floor, telling me exactly what I’m working with.
He’s fucking pathetic. I hope he enjoyed his stupid TV while it lasted because revenge is a dish best served cold. I bet he even paid for the fucker with the payout he got from selling me to Sam.
I silently make my way around the kitchen, knowing that he’s got to have the cash hidden around here somewhere. Keeping the shirt wrapped around my hand, I start searching, beginning with the cookie jar and old containers lined up across the kitchen counter.
I move onto the cupboard, silently rifling through before finding an old mug that looks completely out of place. I reach up onto my tippy-toes and grab it, peering in and scoffing under my breath as I find a measly two thousand dollars.
Is that all I’m worth? I’m sure with the TV, Irene’s gambling addiction, and the twenty or so bottles of cheap whisky, Kurt was probably only paid five grand to have his foster child abducted from her bedroom. Just fucking great. I bet he’d be pissed if he found out that I sold for five million dollars. He’d probably have asked for more money, though that would have only got him shot. I suppose Sam was being generous with paying him in the first place. I guess his investment was well worth the trouble.
Either way, money is money. I dip my fingers into the mug, claiming every last dollar for myself. Consider it my cut for the trouble I went through.
I slip the cash into the baggy pocket of Cruz’s sweatpants before scanning the kitchen once again. There’s a plastic bag, an old shoelace from his boots at the back door, and a good old-fashioned knife.
Choices. Choices.
Suffocation or a slit throat?
There’s a chance that he could tear through the bag or the shoelace could snap under the pressure, so I guess that leaves the knife.