Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
“You remember it, don’t you?” he asks after a moment.
I nod, and he does something funny with his mouth—a thing he does when he’s trying to push something down instead of show his feelings.
For the next fourth of a mile, I try to think of something soothing to say. When I can’t, I wrap my right hand around his left one, not threading our fingers together but enveloping his hand with mine. He leans his head a little my way on his head rest and shuts his eyes.
I’m worried he’s asleep as we pull into the driveway, but when I park and touch him lightly on the knee, he looks right at me.
“Wish me luck.” I force a smile.
“Good luck. And, Lizzy—thank you.”
“You’re welcome, of course. Always.” I hug his neck, and out I go.
My stomach twists itself into a knot as I walk to the front door. I’ve tried to get in touch with Hunter six times in the last twenty-four hours, and each time he’s hit the ‘ignore’ button on his phone. I don’t even know for sure he’s here, although I did read in this morning’s Los Angeles Times online that he was questioned at his Napa home by the FBI yesterday.
I knock once, then twice, then three times before I try the handle. As my fist closes around it, it’s jerked open from the inside, and I’m yanked off-balance. I bump into Hunter’s bare chest.
The second we make contact, he shoves me off him. His eyes widen as he takes in my face. “Libby.”
He’s shirtless in black gym shorts, and his bare chest is every bit as flawless as I remember. I pull my eyes up to his face and am gut-punched by another wave of emotion.
“Hunter, hi.” I swallow, because suddenly my throat is dry and tight. “I tried to call first.”
“I know.” He looks put out, but now that we’re face to face, I find that I’m so glad to be here, I don’t care.
“How are you? I read that you were questioned yesterday and it made me worry.”
I search his eyes for some sign of how he’s doing, but they’re carefully blank. “That’s kind of you, but I’m still kicking.”
I can tell he’s trying to sound cool, but for just a fleeting second, his eyes look lost.
“I miss you,” I say softly. His brows draw together, and for a second I think he’s going to hold out his arms and say he misses me, too. Instead he rearranges his mouth and folds his arms across his chest. “What can I do for you, Libby?”
I’m silent for too long—stung and thrown off. His mouth tightens. “I said I would call you if I could. I haven’t had the time.”
“I don’t get it.” I lower my voice, stepping closer, and Hunter takes a step back into his foyer. “You didn’t hurt Sarabelle, so I don’t get why you haven’t told the FBI what’s really going on.”
“What’s really going on?” he asks flatly.
I shake my head. “I thought you had people investigating. Your father, too.”
I look at the floor, because there’s nothing emotional about the floor, and that’s when I see Hunter’s ankle. There’s a metal band around it.
I cover my mouth. “Oh my God! You have one of the…tracking things.” I point.
He scowls, shuffling his foot a little bit behind him, and hot tears well in my eyes.
He reaches out then drops his arm, like touching me would violate some rule. “Libby, please don’t cry about this.”
I throw my arms around him. “Hunter—how?”
He folds his arms around my back and whispers into my hair. “She had my cufflink. I’m the only lead they have and they think I’m a flight risk.”
I squeeze him harder, like the strength of my hug can fix this mess. “Tell them about Priscilla and Michael Lockwood, and their connection to Governor Carlson. Tell them what you know. I don’t know the whole story, but I know there is one. I know your father doesn’t have bad information.”
I feel him shake his head as my cheek is mashed against his chest. “You don’t understand.”
I pull away and look into his eyes. “So explain it.”
Now he drops his arms off me and steps back, away from the light that streams through the windows of the door and into the darkness of the foyer. His eyes search my face as he bites his lower lip. “Libby...there’s more to this than you think.”
“What do you mean?”
“It wasn’t Sarabelle,” he says. “It’s something else. You don’t need to know the story, Libby.”
But I do. My mind is racing. I remember what his father said. “Let me warn you, you may have to go farther than I did for you.”
“Did you do something bad when you were younger? Something with…with Rita?”
His face hardens, and he blinks over my shoulder. I pull the door shut behind me and step forward to grab his hand. I pull him into the hall where Cross punched the wall that night, what feels like two lifetimes ago. Looking up into his eyes, I can’t believe the guilt I see.