Total pages in book: 155
Estimated words: 152045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 760(@200wpm)___ 608(@250wpm)___ 507(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 152045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 760(@200wpm)___ 608(@250wpm)___ 507(@300wpm)
I love listening and stroking it,” he writes. He had you on your hands and knees last night. I can tell because everything makes noise. The springs in the bed, the headboard, and you. Does he come inside you? Tonight, I’m going to come in right after he’s done and fuck you too. -D
Mr. Bastien said Conor was dead. Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe it was him in here with her? Maybe it was just like what Hawke thought. That Conor made people think he jumped off the bridge. Maybe a body was never found and the story Bastien told me is just a narrative that became the truth to people.
I bet if I bend you over right now and spread your ass apart, he’ll drip out.
Leave me alone! Winslet writes in her dark cursive.
You love it when I don’t, he replies.
I breathe harder, wincing a little. She’s not playing along with it anymore. She’s angry. Or scared. Hurriedly, I pick up another and open it.
I’m sorry. I just got carried away last night. I thought you were liking it. You were. I just lost my head. I’ll be gentler next time. I promise you’ll like it.
It’s Deacon’s writing.
When I open the last one, it’s a drawing in blue pen that takes up half the sheet of lined school paper. It’s the top half of a woman, breasts bare, a hundred tiny circles carved on top of each other onto the paper with his blue pen for her nipples, a rope around her neck. Head thrown back, spine arched, mouth open, and if not for the rope, she might look…euphoric.
With the rope, though, it looks like torture.
You like it, the caption reads.
They don’t talk about the other one who comes down from the attic again. Did he write her notes, too? I look at the desk again, having opened all that were left.
I don’t realize my fists are clenched around the last note until my hands ache. I relax, setting it on the desk with the others.
Both brothers whirling around her, one quiet and one very threatening. How did these get here? The chair above rocks faster, and everything in my gut tightens like a coil. I grab my phone and bolt from the room.
As soon as I land in the foyer, though, I see Calvin and Coral rolling out sleeping bags, Coral on the couch and Calvin on the floor.
I halt, glancing to the door, into the kitchen, and then up the stairs.
I don’t see anyone else.
“What…what are you guys doing?” I ask, a little breathless.
They each have a bag, and Calvin plops down in the chair with a beer in one hand and four more hanging from a six-pack ring in the other.
“Relax,” he says, yawning. “We’re going to take turns every night until we return hostages. Farrow doesn’t want you to be alone.”
That’s odd timing. Does he think someone’s coming into the house, too, like I’m starting to wonder?
“For my safety?” I ask.
“He thinks you’d like company,” Coral replies, fluffing her pillow.
Calvin brings the beer to his mouth. “And maybe a buffer, in case you don’t want other visitors.”
Like Hunter or Kade?
Maybe Farrow is doing it for the team. Keeping Hunter mad and horny until he’s ready to let him loose to kill.
My nerves ease a little, though, grateful. I’ve been fine for over a week. I don’t know if I should be that scared of anyone sneaking in.
And the notes could totally be a prank. “Did you guys leave the notes on my desk?”
Calvin pinches his brow together in confusion. “Huh?”
Coral looks at me.
I shake my head. “Never mind.” I take a seat at the end of the couch and let out a sigh. “So where is Farrow?”
“Tending to needs,” Coral says.
Calvin laughs, still in his swim shorts, sneakers, and a hoodie.
Coral opens a pizza box on the floor, and I see steam rise into the air. “Want some?” she asks me.
I take a slice of cheese, folding it the long way, but I stop before I take a bite.
I glance at both of them, getting an idea. “Are you guys tired at all?”
Calvin holds up his cans. “I will be in four beers.”
I reach over and snatch the pack away from him. “Give me that.”
“Hey.”
“You can drink after the game.”
I toss the pack to Coral, who dumps them in her backpack.
“Plus, I need your help.” I shoot to my feet, taking a bite of pizza as I leave the room. “Let’s go!”
“Where?” he calls out behind me.
But I just walk for the door, waiting for them to follow.
Ten minutes later, we’re climbing out of Coral’s car, as she runs to the trunk to grab a couple of flashlights. I look out at Esplanade Street Cemetery, the rain light, headstones peeking out of the tall grass.
I turn to Calvin, continuing our discussion. “How do you not know where Conor Doran’s grave is?”