Total pages in book: 158
Estimated words: 151469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 757(@200wpm)___ 606(@250wpm)___ 505(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 757(@200wpm)___ 606(@250wpm)___ 505(@300wpm)
It clicks. He’s used the cell he found on the body to check in. “We have some breathing space,” he says.
I don’t like the sound of that. Breathing space. He’s plotting something. I hear my cell in the distance as James reaches into the fridge, peering back at me.
“I should get that.” I slip down. “It’ll be Dexter. They’re worried.”
I get a small, accepting nod, but I can see his concern. “Will they try to talk you out of this?”
“You mean me and you?” I ask, and he nods, lowering some milk to the counter. “You’re a killer, James.” It sounds as crazy as it is. And yet here I am, in love with a killer. I can sugarcoat it all I like. Plead justice. Claim every life ended was warranted. That every man James has killed deserved to die. None of those things change the fact that James is a cold-blooded murderer.
“They don’t know what I do,” he says, leaning against the counter, casual and cool.
“Then they clearly just get a bad vibe from you.”
He pouts, and it’s quite adorable. “Go answer your phone,” he orders, continuing to make whatever it is he’s making.
I do as I’m bid and find my cell nestled in the sheets, but I falter answering when I see it’s Nath calling again, not Dexter. I don’t want to argue with him. I’m not interested in hearing what he has to say. There’s nothing to be gained from answering, so I don’t. He tries again immediately. And again. Then the messages start landing, one after the other, all urgent words begging me to take his call. Something about my mother. He’s done this before. Lured me in with false promises of information. But what if . . .
My heart constricts in my chest, and I answer, lowering to the bed as I do.
“Beau,” Nath blurts urgently. “You have to leave.”
“You said you had information on my mother,” I whisper lowly, my tone loaded with warning. “Don’t tell me you’ve lied again, just so you can tell me to leave James.”
“Beau, you have to listen to me.”
“I don’t have to listen to anyone,” I seethe, slamming my fist down on the bed with my phone so hard, it jolts my other arm. I hiss as a wicked pain shoots up my limb. How could he?
I head to the bathroom to splash my burning face, but another message halts my tracks. I look down at the screen as it pings, one message after the other.
You’re in danger.
He’s not who you think he is.
I don’t know who the fuck he is, but he’s not James Kelly.
He was involved in your mom’s death.
My inhale is so sharp, so abrupt, it has me reaching into thin air to grab something for support. My thoughts chase in circles, my mind trying to process what I’m reading. I look up at the glass, seeing through to the top of the stairs. Transparent.
Another ding from my phone pulls my attention back there.
Watch this. I’m sorry, Beau. GET OUT.
The shakes come on strong, unstoppable and relentless, making my thumb uncoordinated and clumsy as it hits the play icon of the video attachment. A computer comes into view, and on the screen, footage of a place I recognize. I lower to the bed, seeing the comings and goings of the store parking lot. My eyes drop to the bottom corner. To the time and date. “Oh my God.” That date, that time, they’re etched in my memory. And then I see us. Me and Mom. She pulls into the parking lot and zips into a space, and the car sits there for a while. I remember the conversation. I remember pulling on my boots. I remember her face when her cell rang.
I watch as I get out and shut the door, wandering through the automatic doors of the store, and the whole time I’m in there getting our wine, I stare at her car, looking, searching, waiting, watching.
Ten minutes later, I emerge from the store.
My heart starts to pound.
I wander across the parking lot.
My throat clogs.
I approach Mom’s car.
I hold my breath, unable to look away from the carnage about to happen. Then the screen changes. Another angle of the store.
And a man.
There’s no mistaking his frame. His build. His height. And if that wasn’t enough for me, his face. I inhale, checking the digits in the corner. Same day. Same time.
“No,” I whisper, as James moves out of the shot. I only see a spark. Not the full explosion. Not me being flung skyward and landing in a broken, burned heap. I drop my phone. Numb. Dazed. I look around James’s bedroom. See a black T-shirt hanging over the chair. I get up and walk on surprisingly steady legs to fetch it, pulling it over my head and down my body.