Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 66767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Perhaps I don’t pay attention to my head nurse, either?
I dismiss the thought almost as soon as it forms. I don’t know these silly kinds of things about Wren, but that’s because I’m not that kind of person. I’m a big picture man. “You see details. I see patterns,” I say, relieved to also see the porch light on Wren’s house up ahead.
“Like the pattern that I eat vegetable sushi routinely for lunch?” she challenges.
I tip my head, giving her the point. “That escaped my attention, but I know that you enjoy time at home over evenings with large groups of people. I know that you don’t make friends easily, but that when you do, you’re fiercely loyal. And I know you’d do anything for your family, especially Starling, and that you’ve always been more like a mom to her than a big sister.”
“That’s because she’s so much younger,” she mumbles, some of the intensity fading from her tone. “And Mom was working two jobs after Dad left.”
“I know.” I park the SUV and scan the area for the elusive bird that had me crouched in her bushes half the night. When I see nothing but a few old prints in the snow, I shut off the engine. “Looks like the coast is clear, but I’ll walk you to the door. Just in case.”
“I’m fine, thanks. I can walk myself,” she mumbles, grabbing the keys from the cupholder and slamming the door behind her before I can respond.
But instead of starting for the front door, she walks toward the shed in the light of the SUV’s headlights. They reflect off her long, loose hair, making it shine. I’ve never realized how beautiful her hair is before, like a glossy sheet of dark water spilling over her shoulders.
I blame her hair for the fact that I don’t realize she’s pulled a gun out of the shed until she’s locked the door and turned back to the SUV, lifting her hand against the glare of the headlights in her eyes. Hastily shutting them off, I exit the vehicle and start toward her.
Reaching for the shotgun, I say, “Here, let me take that for you.”
“No, I need it,” she says, clinging to the barrel. “For tomorrow morning. Kyle’s afraid of you, so he’s hiding out now, but he’ll be back to wreak havoc on my Saturday morning.”
“You shouldn’t be handling a gun when you’re intoxicated, either,” I remind her.
She rolls her eyes. “I’m not drunk, Barrett. I swear. Just let me go inside and forget tonight ever happened.”
As much as I would like the same, my conscience demands I ensure Wren is safe before I leave. “Let me carry the gun in. Then I’ll leave. I promise,” I say, adding almost as an afterthought, “Though you should probably spend some time at the shooting range if you’re going to be armed as often as you are. If you do decide you’re ready to put this turkey down, you’ll want to be sure you hit what you’re aiming for.”
She looks up at me for a long beat before repeating, “Shooting range,” in a deadpan voice.
“Yes,” I say, sensing I’ve stepped in it again, but not sure how. “There’s one north of town. Not far from the old quarry. I could show you sometime. If you want. I go out there before deer season every year.”
“I also take part in deer season,” Wren says, “and have every year since my daddy taught me how to hunt when I was five. It’s the only thing he ever actually enjoyed doing with me, so I never missed a morning out. No matter how tired I was or how cold it was outside.” She thumbs the safety off on the rifle, sending a shiver of unease down my spine. “I moved beyond the need for target practice a couple of decades ago. This is going in the middle of the “O” in Home Fires Estates. Down at the intersection. By the streetlight.”
Before my lips can part to warn her that it’s awfully late to be shooting off a firearm, the rifle is poised at her shoulder, and she’s fired a single shot. She squints and nods before arching a brow in my direction.
I glance over my shoulder, my distance vision just good enough to make out the bullet hole in the wooden sign, dead center in the middle of the “O.”
By the time I turn back, Wren is halfway up the walk to her front door.
I follow, offering a heartfelt, “I’m sorry, Wren,” to her back.
“I took off two days to go deer hunting last year,” she says as she sorts through her keys in the glow of the front porch light. “It’s just more evidence that as far as you’re concerned, I might as well be invisible.”
“That’s not true,” I say, though I’m starting to wonder.