Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 79360 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79360 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
But she hadn’t done that and I should’ve realized that she wouldn’t.
Five minutes later, I pulled into the driveway behind Brady’s truck, and turned off the engine.
Everything looked okay from here, even the blinds were open, meaning he was up.
Brows furrowing, I got off the bike, hung my helmet up, and started toward the door that would lead inside from the garage.
I knocked, and waited.
Nothing.
Thirty seconds later, I knocked again.
Nothing.
Worry starting to tighten in my gut, I turned around and walked toward the golf bag, finding the key exactly where she said I’d find it.
Holding the key at the ready, I walked back to the door and tried the knob to find it unlocked and turning in my hand.
Shoving the key into my pocket instead of returning it, I turned the knob fully and pushed the door open.
The minute the door was open, I could hear Butterfinger barking somewhere beyond, and I knocked again, impatient to collect my charge. “Brady! You’re late, old man!”
That’s when I heard a car pull up.
I backed back out of the house and looked, to find myself unsurprised to see Naomi idling at the curb.
She waved at me apologetically.
I rolled my eyes, turned back to look inside, and called his name again.
I didn’t go in yet, though.
Though Brady may be old, he was still likely a good shot, and I didn’t want to find my belly full of buckshot.
“Brady!” I shouted. “Yo! My woman is about to lose her shit!”
Still no answer. Butterfinger was going crazy somewhere beyond the kitchen that I could see.
I looked over my shoulder at Naomi who was staring at me through her rolled up window, and shrugged.
She grinned, then mouthed ‘go!’ to me.
I rolled my eyes, and waited for the shuffle of the man’s footsteps, but they never came.
Only the barking, which was getting more and more insistent.
Realizing that something might really be wrong, I stepped over the threshold and stopped in the large, open kitchen area that led straight to the living room.
Although the house was older, it had a ton of potential, and could really become a great place to raise a family. Or had been, according to Brady. He’d raised five kids here, and I could see all the love displayed on the walls, shelves, and hearth.
The kitchen was painted a warm chestnut brown, and the décor obviously leaned more toward old country, which I happened to like.
The living room blended in seamlessly, sporting the same warm brown, and transitioned to a lighter beige about halfway across the room.
The walls were decorated with picture after picture, and in the middle of the fireplace was a large family portrait with seven people, five kids, all very young, and a smiling Brady with his arms around his wife and as many of his kids as he could reach.
He had a smile on a mile wide, and I grinned in reaction to his happiness.
“Brady!” I called again. “You in here?”
It was when I first stepped into the hallway that I got my first hint of something terrible.
I could smell waste, and I worried I was about to walk in on the dog having shit himself because Brady had accidentally left him locked up.
As I started pushing open doors, and looking inside, I quickly realized that this part of the house was empty.
There was one last door to try, and I could practically hear Butterfinger losing it.
“Shit,” I sighed.
The dog really did hate me, and I didn’t want to open that door.
But I did, and found myself staring down a very angry dog. A dog that was standing over her master with a ferocious snarl on her face.
“Shit,” I snapped.
When I tried to step forward though, it was to find Butterfinger getting even more angry.
“Shit!”
I pulled out my phone and dialed 911 even as I was running back outside to Naomi, the only person I knew who Butterfinger actually liked.
“Naomi! Get in here now!” I bellowed at the garage door.
She fell out of her car, and started running toward me even as I got on the phone with EMS.
“I need a medic to 511 Pottersview Road. I have an unconscious male, late eighties early nineties. He’s not responsive,” I relayed to the operator.
The operator started to ask questions, but I halted them by telling her I knew no more.
She accepted that, and I hung up, running to where I found Naomi trying to get Butterfinger under control.
“Careful, baby,” I eased in the room. “She’s scared, and I don’t want her to hurt you.”
Naomi was careful, but luckily Butterfinger was in a willing mood to cooperate, and allowed her close to Brady.
The moment she dropped down to her knees, though, and I heard her soft cry, I realized that Brady wasn’t alive anymore.
Not even close.
“Rigor has already set in,” she disclosed shakily.
“Can you call the dog off?” I rumbled. “The paramedics will be here shortly, and I don’t know if Butterfinger will allow them in.”