Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 63854 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63854 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Mason and I share a look. This is unusual.
“Besides,” Ollie continues, “shouldn’t you—Mason—worry more about the business expansion? And shouldn’t you—Liam—worry more about preparing the contracts for the expansion?”
“I’ve got that under control,” Mason and I say, almost at the same time.
“Is Sally still coming here?” Ollie asks.
“Yeah.” I check my phone. “She’ll be here tomorrow with Noah and Nathan.”
Even though we’re in Ashbourne, that doesn’t mean business stops.
It’s almost the holiday season. We have clients clamoring to get their medical treatments done before their big family gatherings. They want their teeth straightened and whitened; they want to get their surgeries over and done with; they want their waistlines reduced—and they want it all done now.
That’s why we’re still working and why our assistant is coming into town to help coordinate things with our main office in San Francisco.
“Cool.” Ollie places the bottle on the check-out counter and pulls out his black Tom Ford wallet.
The girl behind the counter had a bad case of the resting bitch face the whole time she was serving the previous customer. Now, she practically beams at Ollie, giving him a flirty smile as she greets him.
But Ollie doesn’t seem to notice. He just pulls out his platinum credit card and makes the payment, flashing her his ID when requested.
“Thanks,” Ollie says nonchalantly to the girl—who, by the way, is pretty attractive.
I catch a glimpse of her face falling as we step out of the liquor store.
“Seriously, guys, it’s nothing. Stop being weird,” Ollie says.
I actually don’t think it’s a huge deal. I mean, Ollie’s not exactly acting like normal, but maybe he’s just growing up. At twenty-six, he’s the baby of the family, after all.
But before I can say anything, Ollie stops in his tracks.
“Who’s that?” Ollie asks as Mason and I almost walk right into him.
Ava
“Have you heard about the Hunter boys being back in town?” my mom asks, obviously scandalized by their mere presence in Ashbourne.
She's wearing a black sheath dress tonight. She's in her forties but she looks about ten years younger, thanks to the sunscreen and face creams she wears religiously.
“The Hunters . . . Are they the ones who used to live next door?” I ask as I take the wine glass a waiter has just placed on our table. I need this to get through dinner.
“Yes.” Mom scrunches up her face, making lines appear on her nose and cheeks.
In reality, of course, I know who they are. The whole town knows who they are.
Liam, Mason, and Ollie. And, of course, the twins: Noah and Nathan.
I used to surreptitiously peek out of my window, hoping I’d catch a glimpse of my hot neighbors.
Even now, I know how long they’ve been gone.
Ollie, the youngest, left Ashbourne for college like his brothers had, and that was . . . let’s see . . . about eight years ago.
Wow, I can’t believe it’s been that long. That means I was just thirteen, at the most, when I started to notice them.
I wonder how they’re doing.
I mean, not that we were ever friends or anything. I was way too young to hang out with them, and my parents weren’t going to allow that anyway. They were suspicious of everyone, especially our next-door neighbors.
Now that they’re home from the big city, my parents probably dislike them even more. It’s as if they think the smog in San Francisco could stick to people’s skin and seep into their flesh, thoroughly polluting them.
“Apparently, they’re home for Thanksgiving. But that doesn’t make sense,” Mom says in a hushed voice.
“It’s only early October,” Dad adds. His blue eyes, which match the color of his tie, flash with alarm.
“Exactly.” Mom nods her head up and down in agreement as she literally clutches the pearls around her neck. “Why are they here so early? Are they unemployed? All five of them?”
“Mom, it's probably best not to speculate. Like, can't you just ask Mrs. Hunter, instead of . . .” I want to say “spreading gossip,” but I zip my lips when I see the way my parents are staring at me like I’ve just sprouted a second head. “I mean, it's probably best to go straight to the source.”
I take a big gulp of the wine. It's probably best if I keep my mouth shut.
“I just have questions. That's natural.” Mom’s neatly-shaped eyebrows furrow defensively.
“Yes. We need to know what kind of people live next door,” Dad says.
“That's very true. Otherwise we could end up like those people on the news, who get interviewed about their serial-killer neighbor. They never know what's going on right under their noses.”
I suppress the urge to point out that those neighbors on TV always say the killer’s a nice, polite, perfectly average man. My parents will likely just say that's precisely why we need to be cautious because anyone could be the killer.