Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 96957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
Deep state.
Conspiracy theories.
Corruption.
Serial killers.
All forms of crack for me. My mom used to say my overly curious and highly suspicious mind came from my dad. However, I never equated his overprotectiveness to CSI or government espionage.
After my usual scooter drop-off at the end of our street, I made one pass in front of the firehouse, turned around, and made another pass. No black SUV. No signs of Slade Wylder.
Just a quick peek. I fed my obsessively curious side with the very drug it needed to avoid. The guy threatened to rip my arm off, and I hadn’t completely forgotten his rumored drug dealer status. Yet …
Yet I made a sudden right-left glance and sauntered up the driveway like I lived there. Closed shades obscured any chance of me getting a peek inside the firehouse. If Slade Wylder owned houseplants, they were going to die. Was the dungeon of death still there? The trapdoor covered by a rug?
Slade didn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d have rugs. Or houseplants. Or cookies in a jar on the counter. My mom always had cookies in a jar for me. After she died, my dad tried to fill the jar with store-bought sandwich cookies. I turned my nose up at them and his pathetic attempt to fill my mom-void with store-bought cookies.
I’ll-rip-your-fucking-arm-off Wylder felt more like a dirty-black-boots-in-the-house kind of guy. I imagined him coming home at a werewolf’s curfew, taking a piss, leaving his jeans unfastened, peeling off his shirt, and collapsing onto an unmade bed with his boots on—one leg dangling off the side.
Finding no luck getting the tiniest glimpse into the house from windows and doors, I snooped around the detached two-car garage. The side access door had a window, but it was painted black … and it was locked.
“You know what happens to trespassers?”
“Jesus!” I jumped, whipping around and pressing my back against the door like a fly nailed with a swatter. As I swallowed, coaxing my thundering heart back down into my chest, I clenched my hands. “I’m … I’m not trespassing.”
“My property. You weren’t invited.” His frown deepened. “Trespassing.”
On an eye roll, I mimicked his intolerable facial expression. “So?” I shrugged. “Call the cops.” My gaze dropped to Jericho.
He smiled at me. For real. My mom used to show me pictures of Gunner smiling at her. She said only the people German shepherds loved the most could recognize their subtle smile. I refrained from breaking the news to Slade that his dog already loved me more.
“Fine.” Slade’s one-word response shifted my attention to his cell phone heading toward his ear. “I need to report a trespasser on my property. The perp refuses to leave. Yeah, the address is 803 Sun—”
“Oh my god! I’m leaving …” I held up my hands in surrender while taking two steps sideways before pivoting and pounding my feet down his driveway. The nerve … I was not trespassing. And perp?
I didn’t glance back until I made it up the street and crossed over to my house, where I had a good view of the firehouse. Slade and Jericho were nowhere in sight. My jaw continued to hang open, and I choked on the shock of him calling the police on me.
“What’s that look about?” Missy asked, tossing her phone beside her on the espresso-colored leather sofa by the front window.
I inspected her gray fitted tee. It was mine. “Nice shirt. And … no look. Well …” I dropped my bag by the stairs. “Psycho Slade caught me on his property and called the police.”
“Seriously.” Missy sat up with wide brown eyes unblinking and messy brunette bangs swooping across her forehead.
Sprawling out on the plush, gray and white area rug, I pulled my knees to my chest to give my lower back a stretch. “Total dick move. There’s no way he really called the police. I didn’t see his phone screen, but I did hear the mumble of someone on the line with him. Probably an equally asshole-ish friend playing along.”
“Do you think Slade Wylder has friends?”
My body vibrated with laughter. “Good point. Talk about personality deficit. Maybe his brain is damaged from shooting shit up his veins, or maybe his parents didn’t love him. I don’t know what his issues are, but they are severe.”
“Why were you on his property anyway?”
“Duh … because he lives in the firehouse. He takes a dog to class, but aside from his obvious personality disorder, he doesn’t seem to have a solid reason to have a dog in a college lecture hall. But mostly … I’m just curious. And pissed. The more he acts like an asshole to me for no good reason, the more I feel the need to figure him out.” Straightening my legs, I laced my hands behind my head and stared at the ceiling. “I mean … what if he’s another Professor Dickerson? My curiosity could save lives.”