Total pages in book: 238
Estimated words: 231781 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1159(@200wpm)___ 927(@250wpm)___ 773(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 231781 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1159(@200wpm)___ 927(@250wpm)___ 773(@300wpm)
I smiled, loving the fifties style of it. Trim waist, little roses in the pattern, the kind of Pepto Bismol pink that was in fashion decades ago… Why was this here?
I guess it wasn’t so odd. There was also a top hat and a waffle iron in one of the crates.
Oh, the stories this room could probably tell.
I laid it back in the trunk, folding it gently and closing the lid before walking to the bed and lifting a pillow to my nose.
It smelled clean, like detergent and spring. There was a record player with some records nearby and candles on the nightstand.
There was no way I’d stay here, not knowing anything about this place or whether or not anyone else had a key, but it was kind of cool. Another nook. Another cranny.
Another story.
Taking one last look around, I left, locking the room again and leaving so as not to press my luck. For all I knew, this was Father Behr’s secret place to be the real him and that dress was his.
Clutching my bag, I jogged down the stairwell, slipped the key into my pocket, and stepped into the gallery, closing the door behind me.
I’d missed three classes, but if I hurried, I’d make the fourth.
Taking the stairs, I walked through the church and out the doors, taking the path to the street and turning right. Leaves rustled in the trees, yellows, oranges, and reds fluttering to the ground, and a drop of cool rain hit my cheek. I breathed in the autumn breeze, the key light in my pocket.
Do not tell.
Part of me thought this was a prank. Otherwise, I would’ve gotten some real instructions.
But I wanted it to be real. Having my own hideaway made me feel like I was finally part of a town I’d lived in my whole life.
Like I belonged here now.
Walking down the sidewalk, lost in my head, I barely noticed the car pulling slowly up next to me on the street.
I did a double-take, seeing the cruiser. My chest tightened.
Shit.
“It’s starting to rain,” Martin said through the open passenger side window as he drove. “Get in.”
“I’m getting back to class,” I assured him, inching down the sidewalk. “I said I would help with the decorations for Homecoming after school.”
I started to walk again.
But he called out behind me. “Emory, I want to show you something. Now.”
I stopped, hesitating.
It was no use. He’d tracked my phone. I was out of class during school hours. He came for me.
Knots coiling inside me, I stepped off the curb and opened the car door.
I slid into the front seat and shut the door, my body tense and ready.
“Music?” he asked.
But he didn’t wait for an answer. Turning on the radio, he tuned to some oldies station with the volume almost too low to hear.
Turning the car around, he headed away from school and took me up into the hills, past the mansions, St. Killian’s, and the Bell Tower. I kept my bag on my body, just needing to hold it.
Martin pulled into the cemetery, slowing as we descended the drive and wound around the path to a sea of headstones plotting the landscape on the right and left. Rain hit the windshield, and he pulled off to the side, stopping the car.
I let my eyes drift around the grounds, fisting my hands to keep them from shaking. There wasn’t a soul in sight.
All my excuses came to mind. Which tone of voice might work best? Or maybe I just needed to be quiet. Sometimes if I just let him talk, the yelling would relieve him.
He lifted his arm, and I flinched, but then I noticed he was reaching into the back seat for something.
Setting a white bag down next to me, he reached into the cup holder and pulled out a soda with the straw already in it.
“Eat,” he said. “It’s lunchtime soon.”
An ounce of relief hit me, but I knew it meant nothing. He liked to toy with me.
“Edward McClanahan,” he said, gesturing out the window ahead of us. “They’re moving his body, Em.”
I saw the small digger and that the excavation had already begun, but there were no workers with the rain right now. Just a pile of dirt and a blue tarp over the hole.
“Family wants him safe and sound inside their new tomb,” he told me. “They’re hoping the town will forget the dead girl, and in all likelihood, it probably will. Out of sight, out of mind.”
I clasped my hands in my lap, only half-listening.
“Every year, those arrogant little losers make their pilgrimage here like they’re going to fucking church,” he continued, “but next year, it won’t be Edward in the grave. I bought it today. For Grand-Mère.”
For my grandmother. Not his. He never gave a shit about her. She wasn’t his. He did what he had to do for appearances, and he bought a woman who wasn’t even dead a used grave.