Total pages in book: 185
Estimated words: 180510 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 903(@200wpm)___ 722(@250wpm)___ 602(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 180510 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 903(@200wpm)___ 722(@250wpm)___ 602(@300wpm)
What happens when I do something bad because in another life I was a psychopath? What if that’s my hidden talent?
It would explain why I’m so good at what I do.
Clinical.
Precise.
Emotionless.
“Don’t answer that.” I stand. “I’m going to head home. I just needed to tell you. I guess I needed someone to share the burden with me. And …” I puff my cheeks before blowing out a long breath. “Once again, I’m a terrible daughter. I’ve handed you an impossible situation to solve. And I know by nature, you feel the need to solve all of my problems.”
She stands, setting her coffee on the side table. “You’re right. I wish I could solve all your problems. While I’m at it, I’d like to solve all the world’s problems. But I can’t. And I know this.” She presses her hands to my cheeks. “But it’s not going to stop me from trying. I love you as much as one human can possibly love another human.” She bites her lips together for a beat as emotions fill her eyes. “It was my choice to bring you into this world. You are not allowed to leave it while I’m still alive. Do you hear me?”
My jaw clenches as if not breathing, not blinking, not moving will keep me from falling apart. I nod. No mother should have to say those words to her child. It’s a fucking suicide speech. And I showed up less than twenty-four hours ago, laying out all the reasons my mom might need to convince me it’s not okay to exit this world yet.
“Josephine, do. You. Hear. Me?”
I nod.
“Now, go make things right with Colten.”
I can’t. I just … can’t.
When I get home, there’s a note on my pillow.
All those girls I kissed when we were kids … I closed my eyes and thought of you.
I hold the note to my chest and close my eyes … and I think of Colten.
After a restless night of more images of dead girls’ bodies, I wake at four and start making notes of the number of bodies at each location and the names on the headstones. I don’t think this is Vita Atonement, but I feel like it’s the only visible road to take right now.
I snap a photo of my notes and send it to the lead detective who interrogated me in Nashville.
I meet with my physical therapist a final time before going back to work. Then I stop by the grocery store. When I get home, I put my groceries away and decide it’s time to get back on my stationary bike per my therapist’s suggestion. When I go into the bedroom and toss my shirt onto my bed, there’s another note.
Detective Mosley is a trespasser.
I loved it when you sat next to me while I played the piano … but I loved it more when you’d lie on my bed, making my pillow smell like you. Before I left this note, I rubbed myself all over your pillow. I hope you like it. I hope you like me.
Without thinking, I find myself hugging that note too, against my chest, closing my eyes … and thinking of Colten.
Over the next two weeks, Colten dabbles in breaking and entering every time I leave my house. I’m not sure how he gets any work done. Chicago has way too much crime for him to leave daily notes on my pillow.
Remember that time you found a dead frog by your favorite tree? I found him near the pond by the batting cages, and I left him by your tree as a gift to you. I’ll never forget how excited you were. I’ll never forget how I felt like nobody knew you like I did. I’m still loving knowing that no other human will ever know you like I do.
Colten gave me a dead frog. It makes me laugh out loud. I remember that day, but he never said a word, never let on that it was him.
Another day …
The week I mowed your lawn while your family went on vacation, I spent hours under the tree in the front yard, lying in the grass in your favorite reading spot. I liked the world through your eyes. I still do.
Another day …
The last time Reagan stayed with me, I told her about Artemis. Then I told her you were my Artemis.
Another day …
The greatest day of my life, aside from the birth of Reagan: the day Jo Watts turned out to be the neighbor girl instead of the neighbor boy.
“You’re with me today, Dr. Watts,” Dr. Cornwell says the second I walk into the conference room on my first day back to work.
My colleagues give me a few smiles and kind “welcome backs.” They’re not looking at me like someone who got shot in the line of duty. I’m not sure how to read their expressions.