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)
I think about how small Tate is. As a child, he must’ve been a tiny little thing. Imagining a grown-ass man beating on him sours my gut. A surge of anger spears through me, piercing my icy heart.
Moving on, I discover articles on how Tate’s mother, Kathy, died suddenly of a brain aneurysm. The timeline of the police reports shows that the abuse started happening not six months after her unexpected death when Tate was only four.
Four years old?
What a fucking asshole. Who does that to a little kid?
I move away from the sad shit and get back on task. This time, I dig until I find his annual tax returns all the way back to when he worked part time while going to PMU. His employment was steady where he worked at an animal shelter until he graduated college. Then he worked as a low-paid therapist for a local hospital. Everything seems normal until about two years ago.
From there, I can see multiple different employers. This leads me to also find that he’s broken his lease on several apartments, even going into collections for unpaid fees resulting from those times. There are also a few hospital bills, including a broken arm that required surgery, that he’s been slowly paying on.
The broken arm coincides with the time he let his gym membership lapse. An injury perhaps? Why not talk to the people who own the gym and get out of your contract rather than letting it all go to collections?
I continue my hunt, landing on many mechanic bills. Those were paid, but incredibly frequent, most requiring body work and multiple tire replacements.
Either he’s a really shitty driver or someone hates his guts. I’m satisfied knowing I have some dirt on him to dig into later.
In conclusion, I determine he’s terrible with money, keeping a job, and committing to one place for very long. The reason behind all this is unclear. Hell, I’m not the therapist here, but it doesn’t erase the fact it’s who he is.
When I hear a commotion downstairs, I quickly save everything into his file before logging out. I get up from my chair, my muscles aching from sitting in the same position for so long. I stalk out of my office and down the stairs to find Spencer with Rex in his arms, chatting amicably with Grandpa.
“What?” I demand with a surly grunt.
Spencer’s lips curl into a devious grin. “Always a bucket of sunshine, Voorhees.”
I ignore his barb. If I let all the times Spencer has fucked with me about my mask bother me, I’d be a sobbing, whiny mess who would never leave his bed.
“I’m working. What do you want?”
“Just came to shoot the shit with my two favorite people.” He smirks and presses a kiss to his son’s forehead. “Want to hold Rex?”
I shudder at the thought. I’m not exactly kid material. “No.”
Grandpa holds up his frail arms, gesturing for Spencer to hand him Rex. Spencer, despite his asshole persona, smiles and gently passes the baby to him. Grandpa babbles and coos at him from his motorized wheelchair while Spencer looks on in pride.
“To answer your question,” Spencer says, turning to regard me, “I’m killing time before my session with Tate.”
This time I don’t shudder, but it takes an effort not to. “He’s a quack. Don’t get too used to him.”
Spencer chuckles, eyes glinting with mischief that reminds me of when he was a shithead toddler who used to drive his parents crazy. “I actually like the dude. Plus, you know Grandad has him bound until death by NDAs. We can squeal like little pigs and he can’t do anything with that information.”
He almost seems excited to unload on Tate with what may be some fucked-up enough shit to make the new guy squirm in his seat. I mean, Spencer’s the father of his stepmom’s baby. Furthermore, he’s fucking his stepsister. If I had to guess, probably while his father, Hugo, fucks her too. I’m not an idiot and can see through their secrets.
“I have nothing to say to him,” I grumble, crossing my arms over my chest.
Spencer snorts out a laugh. “Dude, I feel like you have the most to say. You’re definitely the most mental around here.”
“Hugo, be nice to your little brother,” Grandpa chides, confusing Spencer with his dad.
This time, I smirk behind my mask, pleased to see my nephew taken down a few pegs.
Violet appears just in time to break the tension. Long before I moved in with Grandpa, he had staff on hand to help him clean, cook, and handle his affairs. Violet has been with him the longest since Anderson—a man older than dirt who managed all the employees of the home—recently retired and went into assisted living. The few people who take care of Grandpa are also bound by NDAs. Luckily, they’re practically family. Violet is an angel when it comes to making pies. There was even a time in my early twenties when I gained a little too much weight between the depression and her need to make me happy with pie. Now, I work my ass off in my gym so I can eat all the goddamn pie I want.