Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 78142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“The PI. Call her off.”
“Then tell me. Tell me where my sister is.”
“I can’t guarantee your safety or hers while you’ve got people sniffing around. Call. Her. Off.”
The line goes dead.
Damn it.
Seriously?
Alayna told me I could call her anytime, and I’m ready to punch in her number when—
Call off your dog.
I don’t for a minute think this person knows where Griffin is. I’m still convinced she’s dead.
But what if…
What if he’s telling the truth?
What if she is alive, and she’s in danger, and the fact I’m talking to an investigator is exacerbating that danger?
Is that a chance I can take?
I’m glad Diana’s not home. Not that I could tell her anything about this, but she was kind enough to bring in an investigator to help me.
How am I supposed to tell her that I have to call it off?
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I call the number back.
Not that I expect anyone to answer.
Was it even the same voice? It sounded like it was. But it’s not like I have recordings to compare the two.
There’s no way of knowing anything.
This is so fucked up.
I got a new job—that won’t pay me a living wage—from a guy who just wants to get into my roommate’s pants. The same roommate I fucked into oblivion twenty-four hours ago.
I’m getting weird phone calls about my sister who I assumed has been dead for over twenty years. I got a PI by the grace of Diana, and now I’m told I have to call her off or whoever the fuck this is can’t guarantee Griffin’s safety. Assuming she actually is alive.
Oh, and of course, I’m out on bail for soliciting a prostitute.
Not to mention that my sobriety is hanging on by a fucking thread.
The only thing stopping me from running to the nearest liquor store and downing an entire case of beer is the memory of what my last relapse did to my best friend in the world and his band—my band.
But damn, I could sure use a hit right now. Fuck, it doesn’t even need to be a hit. Just a beer. Something to take the edge off.
Thank God Diana doesn’t keep anything in the house, or I’d be swallowing it down.
One thing’s for sure.
If there’s a chance that Griffin is alive…I can’t screw this up.
Do I call off Alayna?
Maybe try to deal with this myself?
If I do that, I’ll have to talk to the two people I swore I would never look in the face again.
My parents.
I don’t even know where the hell they are. Or if they’re even alive.
I remember their address in a northern suburb of Denver called Thornton.
The house was all red brick, a small ranch. Olive-green carpeting, which actually wasn’t a bad thing because nothing would stain it.
I remember how Griffin would spit up on it all the time when she was a baby, and my mother just brought over a rag, wiped up the puke, and you couldn’t even tell.
I still remember the phone number too. The landline. Hell, they may not even use that anymore.
They probably don’t live in that house.
But there is one way to find out.
It’s seven o’clock. At least I know I have some money coming in soon, so I call a rideshare service and put in my parents’ address.
Chapter Thirty-One
Diana
What a first day.
I’m exhausted. I’m excited and thrilled to read more about the mountaintop project.
But not thrilled that I found a pipeline issue that could be a potential liability.
I can’t think about that right now. I place the blueprints on the kitchen counter.
I’m starving but too exhausted to make anything and too hungry to wait around for food to be delivered. I grab a protein shake out of the refrigerator, pop it open, pour a tall glass of ice water, and head straight to my bedroom.
And it’s not until I’m in my bathroom running a hot bath with lavender essential oil that I consciously realize that Dragon’s not home.
Nope.
It’s not my place to worry. Or even to care.
So he’s out. Doing…something. I don’t care.
Except that’s a big fat lie.
I do care.
Somehow, he has edged himself into my heart. And not just because of the great fuck we shared.
Because that’s all it was—a great fuck. To think he was feeling anything more than that would be ridiculous on my part. He went out of his way to tell me that it was a onetime thing.
But take sex out of the equation, and he’s still occupying my thoughts. I actually care about the guy.
I sigh, strip my clothes off, and throw them in my hamper. I step into the warm, inviting tub.
I sink my entire body into the water, turn on the jets, close my eyes, and try to relax.
My sister-in-law Ashley, who’s married to my older brother Dale, taught me this relaxation technique once. She has something called synesthesia, where she sees colors for sounds and sounds for colors and a bunch of other stuff that I don’t understand, so this probably works a lot better for her.