Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 124180 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 621(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124180 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 621(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
“Excuse me?”
“Try it. Say my name and see if it makes you uncomfortable.”
“I’d rather not do that…Mr. Hollingsworth.”
“Jesus.” He shook his head in disgust and stepped back, giving her some much-needed breathing room. “Fine, if you feel so strongly about it, call me Mr. Hollingsworth, but just give the ‘sir’ a rest, would you? I feel like a sixth form school teacher, every time you say it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hollingsworth.”
“But I’m calling you Charity.”
She didn’t like that at all. She hated hearing her name on his lips. It sounded much too inviting, even when it was being delivered in that crisp, no-nonsense English accent of his.
She maintained a stoic silence, hoping he would glean from that how much she disapproved of this entire conversation.
His smile was purely a predatory parting of his lips. “Buck up, Mrs. Cole. It’s just a word.”
She preferred the formality of being called Mrs. Cole, it kept him at a distance. It kept everybody at a distance. He scrutinized her for a second, before appearing to see something in her determinedly neutral expression that made him shift his shoulders in displeasure.
“Alright, have it your way, Mrs. Cole. We’ll keep things formal.”
She nodded, the gesture stiff, but couldn’t resist responding, “As you wish, sir.”
His lips tightened for a second before he opened his mouth. She held her breath, wondering if he was going to call her out on her low-key insolence. But he seemed to reconsider what he’d been about to say and, with an impatient shake of his head, he swiveled on his foot and strode from the kitchen.
A rumbling boom shook Miles from his restless sleep. He sat up disoriented in the darkness. He reached toward the nightstand and found the bedside lamp.
But nothing happened when he flipped the switch.
“Shit!” He felt around for his phone and was relieved when he found it almost immediately. He hastened to activate the flashlight.
The miserly beam of light quelled his rising claustrophobia and he got up, just as a bright white flash of lightning lit up the entire room for a second, making the darkness so much more oppressive when it faded.
The thunderous clap that followed actually rattled the windows. The wind was picking up, and a weird clattering sound, a noise that he couldn’t quite identify, rapidly gained intensity until it was almost deafening.
Hail.
“Fuck me,” he grunted, unnerved by the severity of the storm, and tentatively made his way to his door. According to his phone, it had just gone six and he wondered when the power had died.
If the lingering warmth of the central heating was anything to go by, it couldn’t have been too long ago.
The house was eerie in its silence, and all he could hear was the wind and the dull roar of hail hitting the roof and cobblestones outside.
“Mrs. Cole?” he called, once he had stepped out of his room and into the hallway. His voice sounded ridiculously timid, and he shook his head, disgusted with himself, before calling again. This time his voice was louder and more assured. “Mrs. Cole?”
Better. But there was no still response. The beam of his flashlight barely penetrated the blackness of the hall yawning ahead of him. Everything not illuminated by the dim light was shrouded in absolute darkness.
Where the hell was she? And why was he so bloody hesitant to walk down this fucking hall?
Another shock of lightning lit the way ahead, and he was relieved to note that there was nothing lurking in the shadows. He immediately berated himself for even allowing the notion to cross his mind. Despite his love of epic fantasy books, Miles wasn’t one for ridiculous flights of fancy, so he wasn’t sure where the hell this was coming from.
He should have been prepared for it, but the resonating crack that shook the paintings on the wall, made him jump. He swore again, before throwing back his shoulders and confidently striding down the hall toward the kitchen.
The sprawling house was built on one level. It had an underground garage— Miles preferred building down rather than up. His architect had argued that building a second floor would capitalize on the panoramic views, but Miles had been adamant. One level, and a basement, or he’d find a new architect. The kitchen and pantry divided the family’s sleeping and living areas from Mrs. Cole’s private rooms.
“Mrs. Cole?” Jesus, he sounded like a broken record but he hadn’t expected to find the kitchen empty. The next flash of lightning lit up the large room long enough for him to establish that Mrs. Cole was definitely not here. There were sliced vegetables abandoned on the counter next to the stove. The large knife she must have been using for the task was tossed to the side. She had clearly been in this room when the lights went out.