Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 77775 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77775 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Lies.
Poor Funky.
He’s used to my lies.
I put my car in park and then step out, taking in the massive home. Dark paint is peeling from the wood and it appears that half the porch is leaning slightly to one side. With my luck, it’ll probably collapse the moment I step on it.
Not that I’m anywhere remotely big.
Shrimp. Baby. Little Pussy.
For someone who helps people get past their traumas, I have a heck of a time getting past mine.
Funky meows loudly and I fetch his carrier from the back seat. His golden eyes are wide, assessing our new home with suspicion.
“It’s fine,” I chirp, voice high and not at all reassuring to either of us. “Everything’s fine.”
Meow.
Funky is apprehensive. Understandably so. It’s not the first time I’ve said this phrase seconds before my life blew up.
“This time is different,” I hiss.
Meow.
In kitty-speak, he means to say, “No, it won’t be, Tate.”
I have to believe this is the turning point, though.
Ever so gracefully, I climb the steps, leery of weak boards, and make my way over to the front door. I swallow down my unease and then force myself to take a few steadying breaths.
Breathe, Tate.
You got this, man.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Heavy footsteps thud through the house. Nathan mentioned I’d be helping the whole family but that I’d be staying with his son, who needs me the most. He didn’t elaborate, but he said his son lost his mother tragically and hasn’t taken it well. That was nearly two decades ago. There’s going to be a lot of trauma to unpack.
Thunk.
The sound of a deadbolt unengaging echoes loudly and then the door opens. I’m not sure what I expect, but it certainly isn’t the Boogieman.
Funky hisses in terror.
I freeze, mouth agape.
The man—no, the monster—who towers above me is straight from nightmare territory. He wears a white latex mask, sporting all black.
“I, uh, I’m Tate Prince. Your dad hired me. I’m the therapist who—”
“No.”
I blink at him, shocked at him cutting me off so rudely. The muffled word barely constituted a word and was more of an animalistic grunt.
A shudder runs down my spine and I visibly shiver.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had my fair share of patients who’ve gotten nasty with me, but I’ve always handled those situations with professional ease.
This feels different.
They were in my office seeking help.
But now, I’m in his territory. I’m on his doorstep with my cat. I’m an intruder. A trespasser. I clearly don’t belong here.
He starts to close the door in my face, but my foot kicks out, stopping it with my shoe. Funky hisses again.
I should leave.
I really should.
But I can’t. I can’t go back to that apartment. I can’t keep hunting for job after job, only to have it taken away the second I get comfortable. This job was supposed to be my way out. And I’ll be damned if I let some Halloween freakshow send me packing.
I lift my chin, giving the beast before me as much attitude as I can muster. “Your dad hired me. I’m not going anywhere.”
He’s silent for a beat and then he leans down, bringing his masked face close to mine. I’m forced to stare into his icy blue eyes that peer out beyond the eyeholes. His eyes are cracking open my head and raping my thoughts against my will.
I feel exposed.
Seen.
Fileted and molested.
“You’re fired,” he snarls through his mask. “Now go before I break your foot.”
I squeak in horror, jerking my foot back. As promised, he slams the door hard in my face. If I’d left my foot there, I’d probably be missing a few toes by now.
“What now, Funky?” I ask, voice shaking and heart beating a million miles a minute. “What do we do now?”
Funky meows.
It’s kitty-speak for, “Whatever it takes, Tate, because we’re quickly running out of options.”
The walk back to my vehicle—a severely scarred Ford Explorer—feels like a walk of shame. Like I did something wrong despite being completely faultless. It’s so reminiscent of each shameful walk out of my places of employment after getting canned each time.
Is this my life now?
Will it always be like this?
I slide Funky’s carrier into the back seat once more, trying to ignore the way my hand trembles. Sometimes my fear and anger are so perfectly woven together, it’s hard to discern which one is getting the best of me. Maybe, moments ago, it was fear, but it’s quickly transforming into anger.
Maybe it’s for the best if I quit now, pack up my meager belongings that weren’t a casualty of my never-ending war, and disappear into another state.
He’d find you there too, dummy. He always does.
Ignoring those thoughts, I back the vehicle out of the driveway and slowly creep toward the other homes on the otherwise empty street. I should turn my phone on and call Nathan, but I don’t want to risk it. The longer I can remain hidden, the better.