Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 71832 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71832 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Fitz is waiting, just like Carson says. He nods to me, a gun tucked up against his side, gripping tightly in one hand. “Ladies. Shall we go?”
“He’s on our side,” Bernie says, looking at me. “Right?”
“Right,” I say, pushing her gently toward Fitz.
Bernie follows after, walking like she barely remembers how.
I linger for a moment at the bottom of the steps, looking back up toward the apartment.
Carson saved my life. If he hadn’t rushed into danger ahead of me, I’d probably be dead right now. Instead, he risked everything to keep me safe.
I should feel something right now. Gratitude, excitement, joy, love. Something other than this deep, black hollowness sitting in the middle of my chest. I know it isn’t Carson’s fault that I’m in this situation, but I’m also terrified I’ll never get out of it again.
I turn and catch up with Fitz, ready to go back to the one place I never thought I’d see again.
Chapter 39
Ash
Fitz takes us in through a side entrance. I recognize pieces of the mansion as we hurry down the winding hallways toward the wing Carson brought me to originally. Bernie gets a guest room next to mine, an entire beautiful suite. “This place is amazing,” she says, her voice monotone. “I wish I weren’t completely traumatized right now. Otherwise I’d enjoy it.”
“I’ll have some food sent up,” Fitz offers gently.
“And wine,” Bernie says, sinking down onto a couch.
Fitz murmurs his assent before taking me next door. He hesitates as he lets me into the same room I was in before. “Don’t take it the wrong way,” he says softly, watching me carefully. “He can’t help himself.”
“Don’t take what—” The lights come on and I stand on the threshold, staring inside.
It’s my old apartment.
But it’s not exactly. Carson clearly had this room completely redone—the walls are different, the doors, everything—and the same is more or less right. But it can’t be my place.
The couch is the same. TV stand, coffee table, even the pictures on the walls. I stare at a photograph of me and Iain when we were kids perched on a side table next to the decorative bowl with the little duck where I keep my keys. It’s the same.
“How?” I ask, turning to question Fitz, but he’s already gone.
I explore the place, my mouth hanging open. Carson got everything right, from the dishes in the cabinets to the shape of the closet. Even the freaking toilet and shower look the same—which is a shame because the toilet and shower before were way nicer.
It’s like a shrine to my old life. Even the marks on the bedframe are the same, the stains on the sheets from the time I ate fries in bed, the junk in the top drawer. The book I was reading at the time, a worn-out romance paperback. Like he bottled up the apartment and teleported everything here.
I thought he got rid of all this stuff. At least, that was what he told me. I visited my apartment a couple weeks back and found it empty, completely barren, like I knew I would. I was still living with Bernie because I couldn’t face furnishing my old place, and Bernie didn’t mind because I started paying her rent. I’m rich, after all.
Except now I know what he really did with all my stuff.
He made a space for me in his family’s home. A little reconstruction of my world, my existence in miniature.
I turn and get the hell out of there.
Bernie lets me in the moment I knock. She hugs me tight, leads me to the couch, and we sit huddled together staring at late night reruns of some Housewife franchise I don’t recognize.
I tell her about the room. About my fake apartment. “That’s so creepy,” Bernie says, shaking her head. “It’s the second-worst thing that’s happened tonight.”
“I can’t go back in there. It’s just too weird.” I shiver slightly, shaking my head. “Fitz told me not to take it the wrong way, but how am I supposed to take it?”
Bernie doesn’t have an answer.
Food comes, along with wine. I don’t feel like drinking. After an hour, Bernie shuffles off to bed, too tired to stay up anymore. “I’m going to have nightmares,” she mutters, closing the door, but not before checking the closet for assassins.
I stretch out on the couch, staring at the ceiling. My head’s too busy to sleep right now. I keep seeing Carson kicking in the door, Carson crouching beside a corpse, Carson grabbing me by the shoulders and hugging me hard.
My fake apartment next door. Carson’s little shrine to me.
There’s a gentle knock. I sit up straight, staring at the dark room. A clock glows nearby, showing four in the morning. I get up and walk quietly to the door before opening it.
I knew it would be him. Carson stands there, looking exhausted. Blood stains his shirt. His eyes are sunken and red-rimmed, his hair a total mess. He doesn’t move to come inside and I don’t move to let him.