Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 45371 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 227(@200wpm)___ 181(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 45371 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 227(@200wpm)___ 181(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
“Because you went against his wishes?”
She can barely contain the sobs now, her voice cracking.
“Exactly,” I reply. “Over the years, he calmed down a little. We talk on the phone sometimes, but that’s what ended the best friendship I’ve ever experienced. We were like brothers once, but he could never forgive me for killing Francesco.”
She gulps as if running out of air, pushing her face against my chest as the sobs grip her. I hold her tightly as she cries, minutes passing. I feel so damn inadequate—no clue how to fix this—but it can’t be fixed. It all happened so long ago, but not for my woman. For Bonnie, it just happened.
“You have to go,” she says, disentangling herself and wiping her cheeks. “Don’t you? To find Dad?”
“I don’t want to leave you.”
“But you have to,” she snaps, “unless you want me to go out and start looking.”
She laughs dully.
“That’s me, right? The private detective. I’m going to find the man who killed Mom. Do you know how many times I said that to Dad? He always told me I’d do great. He let me believe the killer was still out there.”
“Bonnie—”
“Please. Find him.”
I move to touch her again, but she backs away.
Turning, I say through gritted teeth, “I’ll get to work, and I’ll unlock the door. There are more photos in there if you want to look.”
She says nothing, so I leave.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Bonnie
I sit on the floor beneath the shrine, Archie in my lap as I hold the photo album. It’s been maybe an hour since Blake left, striding from the kitchen with his shoulders square, intent painted on every powerful inch of him.
The photo album shows Mom, Dad, and Blake standing in a park together, Dad with his arm around Mom. Blake stands at Dad’s other shoulder, already two heads taller, his dark hair swept back as he smiles at the camera. He smiles with more happiness than I can believe. I can’t imagine Blake grinning like that now, so carefree, with no darkness glinting in those penetrating eyes of his.
Archie whines and rolls onto his back, offering me his belly. I scratch him as I flip the page, finding a photo of Dad and Blake that was taken up close, both of them smiling into the lens as the sun shines brightly behind them.
“All my life,” I murmur, scratching Archie under the chin, “I wanted to find the man who killed my mom. That was the reason, boy, but I don’t think I ever really wanted to be one. It was my mission, but the mission’s already over.”
He groans as if he understands me.
“And now Dad’s missing, and Mom… Jesus, poor Mom. What she must’ve gone through at the end.”
I cry again, annoyed at myself for letting the tears come so easily. It’s like Blake has torn a hole open inside of me, wrenched me apart, and let agony spill in, but I can’t blame it on him. I prefer knowing the truth, even if it hurts like hell.
I lie in bed for a long time, convinced sleep will never come. My heart is pounding too fiercely, my nerves too taut as I think about Blake out there, searching for Dad. A thought slithers into my mind. What if Blake invented it all—the story of Dad’s kidnapping and the circumstances of Mom’s death?
As soon as this thought arises, passion shoots it down. My need to be with Blake forever obliterates it. I think back to when he told me, the husky pain in his voice, his eyes locked on me. I don’t believe he lied. Maybe it would make my life easier. Then I could go back to seeing him as my kidnapper and nothing more.
He’s the man who avenged my mother. Maybe I should feel something else about what he did—anger that Blake would take the law into his own hands. Regret that this man, this monster Francesco, isn’t facing legal justice.
Truthfully, I’m relieved. He’ll never hurt anybody again. He got what he deserved.
Somehow, sleep takes me. I close my eyes, and when I open them, sunlight fills the room and Archie is curled up in a ball, pushed right up against me. Someone knocks on my door. Soon the knocking gets louder.
“Hello?” I call.
“It’s me.”
Even tired, Blake sounds in control. It gives me a small whisper of hope.
“Can I come in?”
“It’s your house,” I say, unable to keep the bitterness out of my voice.
When he pushes the door open, Archie hops down from the bed and runs across the room. Blake kneels and greets his dog, stroking him over the head and up and down his body. Every time he does this, I think of children. I think of a world in which none of this is happening. Dad’s not missing. He and Blake are still friends.