Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 112449 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 562(@200wpm)___ 450(@250wpm)___ 375(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112449 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 562(@200wpm)___ 450(@250wpm)___ 375(@300wpm)
“That’s not how it looks,” Zara said. “When are you going to wake the hell up, Paris?”
Paris spun on her. “It looks like you danced naked in a field, chanting and begging for the sacrifice to burn. That video is probably already up on YouTube, and your ass will be screaming innocent expecting everyone to believe you. There’s plenty of doubt to go around, Zara, so shut the fuck up!”
The whole car shut the fuck up. No one said a word as she peeled from the bank and tore off. It was quiet in her little convertible, but not in my mind.
The scene played on repeat.
Me dropping the arrow and turning to leave.
Green Hair’s voice bringing me back to the window.
Watching the pissing contest play out. Then the moment the knife pierced his thigh, and Cavendish’s true self tore the smiling, cheerful act to shreds.
His face as he threatened him—contorted with hate, and something else.
Cavendish wanted to kill him. Wanted it more than getting off that post or even staying alive.
The desire to extract his death on a knifepoint of sharpened pain rang clear across the field, and then I saw him. Standing over Jennifer with that look on his face and it being the last one she’d ever see.
The next thing I knew, the arrow was notched and the string bit into my finger.
“I’m sorry, Paris,” I croaked.
“Sorry? What—”
I stuck my head out of the window and vomited.
“Fucking hell, Rainey,” Amy cried. My stomach’s contents splattered her window. “Keep it together.”
“Leave her alone.” Zara rubbed my back soothingly. “We just saw a man freaking burned alive. His screams... I almost vomited too.”
Coughing and wheezing, I let Zara tow me back in. She stroked my cheek, smearing it with tears and paint. The paint hers. The tears mine.
I did it. I killed a man. Planned, plotted, and executed the brutal end of a life, and it was all for nothing.
Trust me, he said. Kill him and I’d find Jennifer. I’d be able to save her, but how could that happen?
Was Cavendish supposed to shout her location as he burned? Well, that did not happen.
I was trapped. We were trapped—Jennifer and I.
My palm dug in my aching chest, feeling the weight growing heavier and heavier.
And we were both dying.
I closed my eyes. On and on the loop went, ending just as the arrow struck home.
My phone chimed.
The sound dragged me back. I fished it out and cast a surface glance at Unknown Number.
555-9428: 18 North Westham
Another message came through before the first one sunk in.
555-9428: Better hurry.
“Paris.” I tried to keep my voice even. I didn’t go too far into what this meant. For all I knew, it was another trick. Another test. I’d breathe when Jennifer was safe. “Can you drop me off first? At the corner of North Westham and Brick, please. I feel awful. I just need to get home.”
“That’s fine.” Paris swerved a pair of brake lights. She was determined to get as far away from Westchester Drumlins as possible, and she wasn’t letting the speed limit stop her.
I’m almost there, Jennifer, I thought. Hang on.
“Where were you?”
I blinked, jarring out of the never-ending loop. “What?”
“Where were you?” Paris repeated. “You said you were by the professor guy. I looked everywhere and didn’t see you.”
“I looked everywhere for you too. There was so much noise, shoving, and glow-in-the-dark aliens, we must’ve kept passing each other.”
“Yeah.” She slid back to the road. “Must have.”
We didn’t speak for the rest of the drive. Paris dropped me off at Westham and Brick, as promised. I fell out of the car, tossing a hasty bye over my shoulder.
They honked off, leaving me on the dark, quiet street.
No lights bleeding through the curtains. No sounds of happy families watching television or eating dinner on the other side.
Westham Street was a row of empty homes, and the wrecking ball towering at the end of the street told of what was to become of them.
Cavendish brought Jennifer here?
Where no one would have a reason to look, another voice said, till it was too late.
Chest tight, I stepped off the sidewalk, crossing to number eighteen.
The two-story home rose from a small lot well-tended by its former owner. Rosebushes, magnolia trees, and a ring of flower beds decorated the garden, circling the home. I thought as I pushed the creaking white fence open that this must’ve been a beautiful place—when the flowers weren’t wilting on their branches.
I climbed the sagging porch steps and closed on the door handle. It turned without resistance, beckoning me inside.
“Jennifer?” I called.
The door tipped me out into the living room. There was an old charm to the paisley upholstered couches and the doily draped over the television. This was the home of a grandmother. Other grandmothers. Mine decked her place out with signed band posters from her days as a roadie, and an ammo collection above the fireplace.