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)
“Hello,” I hear Hunter say, just as I’m opening my mouth. His voice is extra low and slightly raspy, and if I’m not mistaken, I can hear the echo of it through the door that connects our rooms.
Almost immediately, there is another voice.
“Hunter.” It sends a shiver down my spine, because I know that voice from TV. Hunter’s father. “Are you alone?” Conrad West’s voice has always been a little creepy: a cross between Darth Vader and a pushy salesperson.
“I’m at my house and yeah, I’m alone. What can I do for you, Sir?” Hunter sounds weary. Under that, I hear a ring of irritation.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve heard from you,” Conrad says.
“Yeah.”
“You feel no obligation to keep in touch with your father? Your sister says she never hears from you either.”
“What do you want, Dad?”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know.” His voice tightens. “To wish me a good day?”
“You know damn well why I called!” Conrad snaps. “You’re in water hot enough to boil a pound of crawfish. Is there anything you care to tell me?”
“I don’t care to tell you shit. That’s why I never call.”
I can practically feel Conrad’s anger through the phone line. My palm around the phone starts sweating as Hunter’s dad growls, “You don’t want to talk? Then allow me. You are being investigated for the murder of a Las Vegas escort. Does that ring a bell?” Conrad’s voice has gotten more Southern; he’s practically drawling now. “Sometime between the night you engaged her services and the next morning, she disappeared. Right out of your bed. She was found dead last night in a ditch in Arizona, with your cuff link in her cold fingers.”
“I didn’t—”
“What you did or didn’t do is immaterial. You can’t be investigated. Do you understand how badly you’ve fucked up?”
The line is quiet.
“Let me spell it out. Rita died because of you. Because you couldn’t learn to quit pushing that woman’s buttons. Are you intentionally trying to ruin your life? If so you are doing exceedingly well.” Hunter says nothing, and his dad continues. “You tend to do that. Ruin things. Well let me remind you, this sort of scandal is below our family.
“You know, for years after you moved to Vegas I had patience with you. I, too, had some oats to sow, but unlike you, I was able to move forward.”
Hunter’s voice warbles on the line, then comes through loud and strong—condemning. “You fell in love with a hooker. And she died in childbirth, because you wanted her to labor at your house. That’s how you ‘moved forward.’ Because my mother died. Rita weaseled her way back into your life and you took her, and you pretended she was my mom. This scandal’s not below our family. This scandal is our family.”
“No it’s not! The only scandal comes from you!”
“I’m not the one who hit a fucking kid!”
There’s a pause, and then Conrad’s voice lowers, soft and deadly. “Neither am I, but sometimes I wish I had. Clean this mess up. Pay off the police. Do whatever you need to do to bury this. But let me warn you, you may have to go farther than I did for you. Priscilla Heat is close enough to Carlson to suck his fat, red cock, and she is covering for him. From what I’ve been able to gather, this somehow goes back to one of Carlson’s mistresses. This is hearsay now and I’m working to find evidence, but I am not going public with it. It would hurt my career. You need to find someone who can. Check your e-mail. Check it daily. Check it hourly. Right this course or so help me. Goodbye.”
Hunter
I’VE BEEN POUNDING the bag so long that things have started getting blurry. When I hear Libby’s voice say my name, it’s like a salve, but I can’t stop what I’m doing. My knuckles are bleeding, the scabs from the charity fight split open, and for once, I want to see blood.
I was playing cards online in the basement that afternoon. For months, it had been the only place I knew she couldn’t reach me. The cancer had advanced so much, she couldn’t make it down the stairs without risking a fall. It’s ironic—I think it’s ironic—because that used to be her favorite place to find me. The walls always muffled the sounds of her slaps and screams so my father could pretend he didn’t hear.
These were different days, though. Rita was spending most of her waking time in the bedroom she shared with my father. When I got hungry or wanted to go outside, I typically only had to avoid the bedroom or the sitting room.
That afternoon, when I heard her creeping down the stairs, hanging onto the banister, I half wondered if she’d died and come to haunt me on her way to hell.