Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 102560 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102560 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
We live at The Elysian now. About six months after the ordeal, she left her small rental apartment in NYC and moved to Upstate New York with me.
I’m here for another three years because I talked the investors into buying more land that’ll make the entire exclusive community over twenty square miles. They’re building various town centers that are all unique. I designed each and every one of the additional areas and will oversee the entire building project.
“What are you doing here?” she says, looking at me. “Don’t you have work to do?” Her nose scrunches.
“I’m here to do what you won’t.”
“And what, pray tell, is that?”
“Celebrate your book being published.” I move closer and grab a clean coffee mug that’s on the desk. I pour her a taste of champagne.
“My mug? Really?”
“It seemed fitting. You’re drinking from it and always working, after all.”
She throws her head back and laughs, and that’s when I drop to one knee. Her eyes go wide seeing the movement, her mouth now hanging open.
“What are you doing?” she gasps out. The mug starts to rattle as her hands begin to tremble. Reaching out, I take the mug from her fingers and place it on her desk.
“I love you, Layla, and want to spend the rest of my life with you. Will you marry me?” I say as I present the box I had in my pocket. Tears fill her eyes as I slip the large, brilliant-cut diamond on her left ring finger.
“Yes! Of course, I will marry you,” she answers before leaning down and kissing me.
I move from my kneeling position and stand, pulling her into my arms. We stay entwined for a moment, our mouths touching, our tongues entangled.
When I pull away, I say, “Enough of this love stuff. You have more work to do, Miss Newly Published Author.”
Layla sits back at the desk with a laugh and lifts the mug with champagne to her mouth. Her smile is warm as she looks at me and then back at the ring on her hand. I truly am filled with a feeling of peace at seeing her happy with my jewelry on her hand.
She takes a few sips of champagne before turning back and frowning at whatever she has on the computer monitor.
“What’s wrong, Layla?”
“I’m just thinking about this case.”
“What about it?” I move to stand closer to her desk, hands on her shoulders, looking down at her.
“It’s just—everything is so airtight in this new caseload I’m looking at.”
“What do you mean?”
“The killer. The Saturday Butcher . . .” She points at the computer. “It’s all so perfect. The MO, it never deviates. It just got me thinking.”
“What about?”
“He never deviates. He never alters his pattern.”
“Okay . . . I’m not following you.”
“Maybe it’s release day jitters.” She sighs.
“Maybe what’s release day jitters?”
She pivots her chair, her body facing me, her head tilted up.
“What if the book doesn’t do well? What if someone . . . ?” I know what she’s about to say. What if someone finds out I’m North? What if it all comes crumbling down?
But she surprises me by saying nothing along those lines. “It’s just that I left things out. There are loose ends. And not just the glaring ones you and I know. But looking at the Saturday Butcher, I see the other details more clearly now. One thing just doesn’t make sense.”
I don’t answer.
“It’s peculiar.” She lifts her left hand and scrubs at her head as if she’s trying to remember. The afternoon sunlight reflects off the diamond that sits newly upon it. “After everything. After all that he said and did, Stone never did tell me why he killed Cynthia. It just—”
“It just what?”