Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 81986 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81986 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
“Nope. I wish.” I gave a bitter laugh. “I’d be on an island somewhere drinking away the money I’d stashed in offshore accounts. But no, I’m Worth Stapleton, local golden boy and village idiot who didn’t know a damn thing until the feds showed up on my doorstep. I defended Perry, not that it did any good because he’d already talked, making me look even worse.”
“I’m sorry.” Wonder of wonders, Sam actually sounded like he meant it. “If it matters, I believe you.”
I made a distressed noise. My stomach burned like hot ashes had landed with Sam’s every word. He believed me. Wow. The surprise might be enough to lift my bleak mood if I were still capable of hope and wonder. However, like my stomach, I’d taken up permanent residence in a fiery hell.
“No one else does. And unless you’ve got a Fortune 500 company hiring, I’m not sure it makes a hell of a lot of difference.”
“Nope,” he way-too-readily agreed with me. “No job offer. Just a smelly dog who needs a shower and a couch you can crash on.” Standing back up, he approached the front door. “Coming?”
Chapter Two
Sam
“Coming?” I waited, hand on the doorknob. The way I saw things, Worth had two options: follow me into the house or remain on my front lawn while I called for friend backup. Or a mental health evaluation, which he likely needed more than Monroe or Holden making an appearance.
Through my work with at-risk teens, I had extensive experience with individuals with a high likelihood of self-harm. Worth ticked all those boxes: no place to live, no job, no purpose, no social network, a stated lack of plan, seemingly disoriented and distressed to find himself here, in search of something he didn’t seem certain of wanting.
Support? Someone to believe in him? None of that seemed to make a difference. He kept right on snapping at my outstretched hand, so to speak. The dirty dog he was holding was far better behaved. And I was all kinds of messed up because I preferred his outright hostility to the several months of ghosting. I’d missed his thumbs-ups, funny emoji, and the occasional witty one-liner. And I’d liked knowing he was at least alive and somewhat okay amid all the news about his mom and the case around her disappearance.
However, with each new development in the case, his responses to my texts had become increasingly sporadic. Understandable. For twenty years, Worth had steadfastly sided with the public opinion that his father had likely killed his mother and hidden the body.
Which would be traumatic enough, but that wasn’t what happened.
New evidence had been uncovered over the last year tying a serial killer to the area, and worse, there was evidence his mom might have had an affair of sorts with the man. The discovery of her remains and the recent confession of the serial killer was proof enough for most people of Worth’s father’s innocence, especially now that the confession had led to quick sentencing. The serial killer would spend life in jail, but it was Worth’s life I was more concerned with right then. Whatever was going on in Worth’s head about the case, he wasn’t talking, not to me, not to other friends.
And at the moment, he wasn’t moving either, stubbornly rooted to the same spot near the tree. Fireworks went off overhead, but Worth didn’t so much as flinch.
“Fine.” Crossing the porch again, I moved to take the dog from him, but she growled at me. I made a show of stepping back. “I hope it’s not more vicious than I thought. I don’t want the thing to bite me.”
“Buttercup is not a thing.” Worth had exactly the reaction I’d hoped for. Haughty as a princess himself, nose tilted skyward, he marched himself and Buttercup up the porch steps, deigning to wait for me to open the door.
“It’s unlocked?” He frowned as I turned the handle.
“It’s Safe Harbor,” I said by way of explanation, which only made his frown deepen. “I keep forgetting I’m a homeowner now, but I’m not worried.”
“I am.” He stepped inside exactly far enough to allow me to shut the door, then gasped. “Where did all this color come from?”
“A paint can?” I smiled. I was still getting used to the house myself, both my ownership of it and all the renovations that had been necessary after years of neglect. The house had always had strong craftsman bones, but my brain kept trying to reconcile its present updated state with my childhood memories of gatherings here when the house had reflected random decades of changes. Eighties tile counters in the kitchen, nineties mini-blinds in the windows, sixties wallpaper lingering in the stairwell, an original clawfoot tub hanging out next to a more modern, hastily installed shower. Despite the mismatch of decor vibes, the whole place had been meticulously clean, nary a dusty bunny. Or color. None of that either.