Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 78026 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78026 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
This one definitely is.
My toes curl into my shoes as I hit the number and the phone rings. I haven’t met Jonathan even once since the wedding nine years ago. Alicia comes to visit alone and we usually keep up through calls. When I tell her to FaceTime, she says that’s for the younger generation, not her.
“Hello.” A strong voice brings me out of my reverie.
“H-hey…I…I’m…Clarissa…A-Alicia’s sister.”
“I know who you are.”
Oh. He remembers me. I don’t know why I thought I had to explain myself some more.
“I-is Alicia there? I’m trying to reach her and…”
“She’s dead.”
My heart nearly hits the ground for the second time today. “W-what?”
“The funeral is tomorrow. I expect you to be there.”
The line goes dead.
My heart follows soon after.
He…can’t mean what I think he does, right?
I call him again, but there’s no answer.
No, no, no.
I flip open my browser and search Alicia King. That’s what I usually do when I miss her. I study her pictures with Jonathan and their son on the internet from fundraisers and parties.
The results that enumerate in front of me aren’t of those joyful events, though.
‘Breaking News: Alicia King found dead after a tragic accident.’
‘Jonathan King is a widower after the death of his wife, Alicia King.’
‘An accident takes the life of Alicia King, Jonathan King’s wife.’
The first droplets of rain hit my screen and more soon follow.
My legs abandon me and I drop to the ground as I see the pictures of Alicia’s white car, the one she used to take me all over town with as we shopped and ate.
Then the images of a body covered in a white sheet appear.
The rain blurs my vision as I scroll through the articles, all from today.
Alicia is dead. My sister is dead.
No.
No…
Alicia. You can’t leave me.
She promised we’d see each other more often if I chose to study in a university in London once I was eighteen.
I was counting the days, crossing them off my calendar until I got there.
A sob tears from my throat as a sense of grief sneaks up on me quietly and grips me in its clutches. All our moments together play like a distant song at the back of my head, and the fact that I’ve lost her forever engulfs me in a wave of darkness.
A bleak world.
A strangled heart.
This can’t be happening.
Alicia can’t be gone.
It’s a lie. It has to be.
Still, my tears blind my eyes no matter how much I bargain with my head.
I stare up at the sky, at the stormy clouds and the pounding rain. At the howling wind in the trees and the desolate road.
That’s how it feels inside. Barren. Hollow.
Wake me up, please. I can’t breathe. Someone wake me up.
My phone vibrates and I startle as a picture of Dad lifting me in his arms on my sixteenth birthday flashes on the screen.
My Hero.
I named him my hero, but he never wore a superhero cape. Not even close.
I stare behind me, my tears coming to a screeching halt. I hop on my bike, throw my phone in the basket, and pedal down the road the fastest I can. The rain soaks me, my dark hair sticks to my forehead and my mouth, but I don’t stop my high speed.
The phone flashes with a text from Dad.
My Hero: You were here, weren’t you, my little muse?
Muse. That’s what Dad calls me sometimes. When I asked him why he uses that nickname, he said it’s because I inspire him to be a better man.
My breathing catches as I stare behind me. No one is following me, but I feel as if someone is.
The phone flashes again, and this time I do answer, putting it on speaker as I continue my escape.
“Clarissa.” His suave, welcoming tone suffocates the air. The Yorkshire accent is barely there. “You know I don’t like it when you don’t answer my calls.”
“W-why…? Tell me why, Dad.”
“It’s not what it seemed, Muse. Wait for me at home. We’ll talk when I get back.”
“Why, Dad?!” I shriek. “Why?”
“Because I can. I’ll be there in a few.”
The line is cut off. Just like that. It’s completely cut off.
I open my mouth to scream, but it remains slack and nothing comes out. I contemplate pedalling straight off the edge of a cliff.
Maybe if I do, I won’t feel Dad’s betrayal and Alicia’s loss.
Maybe I can erase today from my memories and I can call Alicia and she’ll pick up. I can solve a puzzle with Dad and make him pizza afterwards and we’ll binge-watch true crime on Netflix.
But driving myself over the edge won’t solve anything.
It won’t bring back life to the dead woman he drug across the ground.
I pedal all the way to the town centre, ignoring the screams of my exhausted leg muscles and the funny way people look at me. Some greet me, but I don’t reply. I can’t.