Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75218 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75218 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
“So you called to tell me that you don’t know shit?” I hiss.
“I have news, and I know you want to hear it, but I don’t know if this is the best time.”
“Wren,” I growl.
“Weston Lewis, the third, was due back from California over a week ago. You know that he wasn’t on his return flight. What we didn’t know until I just dug much, much deeper is that one of the women we thought was a mistress was actually another half-sibling. But when he poured acid on her face and left her for dead on the side of the highway, he didn’t know that.”
My heart literally stops beating. I have to bend in the middle and breathe deep to get it going again. “He disfigured her?”
“They weren’t able to identify her until two days ago. Since Weston, Jr. has been so good about covering his tracks, they had no idea that it was an angry, misinformed half-sibling that did it to her.”
“And we’re sure that it’s Weston, the third in Parker’s apartment.”
“It’s an educated guess, but they have no cameras on the front lobby because they’re using them all on the back of the building.”
“You know more than you’re letting on, Wren.”
“They umm… he has a gun and they’re trying to talk him down,” he confesses.
I knew he’d be listening in on the scanner.
“Wait—” He goes silent, and I don’t know if he’s telling me to hold on and not go in there or if he’s getting new information. The wait goes on for what feels like forever. “They have him in custody. He didn’t put up a fight. She’s fine, man. He didn’t hurt her.”
She may not be physically hurt, but there’s no way this isn’t going to have some sort of lasting impression on her.
I hang up the phone, hands trembling and needing to make sure she’s okay with my own eyes. Another lifetime passes before the man I know as Weston Lewis, the third is lead out of the apartment building in cuffs. I’m heading toward the entrance, ignoring the cop yelling at me a second after they put him in the back of a cop car.
I take the stairs instead of the elevator, the thought of standing idly for even a minute locked inside a box impossible.
The hallway leading to her apartment is a flurry of activity, some cops standing around with relieved looks on their faces. The inside of her apartment is no better. I count no less than five police officers inside, but I don’t stop until I spot her. She’s on the couch trembling and crying, a tissue close to her face as she speaks in low tones with a detective.
When her eyes find mine, I can finally take a breath. I know I should wait to go to her, let her finish with the detective, but keeping even a couple of feet of distance between the two of us is too much to ask.
She opens her arms to me when I’m within reaching distance, and I don’t hesitate for a second to wrap my arms around her. She buries her face in my neck and sobs, and we stay like that, wrapped around each other for long moments. When she’s strong enough to pull back a few inches, I don’t let her go far.
Everything that happened between us up to this point doesn’t matter. She could just be grateful that I’m a familiar face. She could have changed her mind after something so traumatizing has happened. I don’t really care why she’s clinging to me; I’m going to be here for her and deal with my own emotional problems later.
I sit patiently with her in my arms while she explains to the detective what happened. She’s giving that piece of shit the benefit of the doubt. She’s telling the cop that he’s not a bad person, and I know I’m going to have to be the one to pop that fucking bubble. There’s no doubt her life was in danger. The man’s gun is in an evidence bag on the table in front of us for fuck’s sake, but I don’t open my mouth while in the presence of others. She’ll find out soon enough.
“He says he thought the woman in California was another mistress,” she explains, making me draw back a few inches from her.
Her fingers tangle in my shirt, preventing me from going far.
“He gave himself up,” she continues. “That counts for something, right?”
The detective frowns.
“He’s hurting. His mother tried to kill herself, and she may not make it,” she goes on to explain. “He was doing it out of some sense of justice for his mom.”
The detective continues to write in his notebook but doesn’t offer any solace for her brother’s sake.
Although it’s only fifteen minutes or so, it feels like forever until the police finish their investigation and leave.