Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 78631 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78631 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
I remember buying those pajamas for Griffin. It was a few days before Christmas. Mom and I went to a discount store. It might have been Target. Maybe Walmart. I don’t remember.
When I saw those pink flannel pajamas with rainbows, I knew they would be perfect for Griffin. They ended up being her favorites—even more than the ones with the light-blue hearts.
The blue hearts were what she was wearing the night she was first attacked.
God, I remember. All the blood. Soaking through the flannel, all over the little blue hearts…
I don’t know what ultimately happened to those pajamas. Mom and Dad probably threw them out. Or they’re in an evidence bag somewhere.
But the next time, when Griffin was taken, I wasn’t there to protect her. I wasn’t there to take the blame.
She must’ve been wearing those pajamas I gave her that last Christmas I was in my parents’ house.
No.
I shake my head to clear it.
Someone is fucking with me. The same person who claims to know where she is. The same person who keeps telling me to call off my private investigator.
I don’t even know if Griffin was wearing those pajamas the night she disappeared. My parents never came to get me. They just went on with their lives. They lost a child, and they apparently forgot they had another who’d been unjustly blamed for something he didn’t do.
Who would want to fuck with me?
And why now?
I got out of foster care when I was eighteen. And that was a glorious day, let me tell you. When I entered that last group home for boys thirteen to eighteen years old, I was the new kid, and small for my age.
I paid for it.
By the time I got out, though, I was no longer the new kid, and I’d grown into my current height.
I don’t let myself think about those days. Those days when I should’ve been home with my parents because I hadn’t done what they thought I had.
Things happened to me during that time that I can’t let myself think about. Things I’ve never told anyone—not Jesse, not my therapist.
Things I’ll take to my fucking grave.
There are also things I did during those years. Things I never would’ve done otherwise.
One thing in particular, and I’ll also take that to my fucking grave.
How long have I been standing out here?
I walk back inside, nod to the security guard on duty, and head to the elevator, carrying the box back up to Diana’s penthouse.
She’s at work, of course, so I have the place to myself. I’m expecting a call or an email from Antonio Carbone about when I’ll start my work as a percussion instructor at his music shop.
But until then…
Do I dare call this number?
A better idea would be to give it to Alayna. Let her deal with it.
But already I know, as I rub this piece of flannel between my fingers, that I will call.
I can’t not.
Chapter Two
Diana
I wipe the sugar from my doughnut off my lips with a napkin. I should go to the ladies’ room before I go in for my ten o’clock meeting with Rod.
Do I take Marcus’s advice? Do I keep my findings to myself?
On the other hand…
Maybe they’re testing me.
I mean, what if I didn’t find the discrepancy? Then he might say I’m not a good architect.
Either way, I seem to be screwed.
I get up from my desk and walk out of my cubicle down the hallway to the ladies’ room.
Two of the architects I met briefly yesterday, my first day, smile at me as they wash their hands.
“Good morning,” I say brightly. Perhaps too brightly. I don’t buy it.
“How are you enjoying the work, Diana?” one of them asks me.
Great. She knows my name. I have no idea what hers is.
“Everything’s good so far.” I give them a smile and then walk into a stall. I don’t have to go to the bathroom, but I do need to collect my thoughts. I wait a few moments and then flush the toilet for show and leave the stall.
Good. The two young women are gone.
I wash my hands and grab my makeup bag out of my purse. I assess myself in the mirror. My hair still looks good. But is it my imagination, or do I look pale?
Ugh.
I grab my blush out of my makeup bag and swipe a few layers onto my cheeks. The doughnut did a job on my mouth, so I fix my lipstick as well. I use the supposed twelve-hour lipsticks, but none of them work. I should know better than to believe any advertisement.
I draw in a deep breath and look at myself again. My hair is up in a high ponytail. Not the most professional look, but I need to get it out of my face.
I draw in one more deep breath. “Let’s go,” I say out loud.