Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 52447 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52447 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
And sometimes that’s exactly what it feels like. As if he is the only reason I’m human.
And if I’m not human, I don’t know what I am.
I’m certain I don’t want to find out.
Kane doesn’t believe I’m a monster. And sometimes, usually, when I’m with him, I don’t, either. That’s better than never.
Chapter Twenty-One
Anyone who has ever been around me with less than four hours of sleep has lived to regret it. I’m talking three hours and forty-five minutes, and I’m the bitch of all bitches. I will fuck you up for even offering me coffee. Or for not offering me coffee.
Which is without question why Kane carries me to bed and sets me down. “Bedtime,” he orders and straightens. He’s still in his pants. I’m back in the robe that was on the bathroom floor.
I sit up in objection. “I need coffee and Purgatory. I need to solve this case before this bastard kills again.”
He shows me his ridiculously expensive watch, expensive as in it’s almost gaudy—Kane is a flashy guy—and I read the time. It’s almost two am.
“I know from experience,” he adds, sitting down next to me, “that your phone will start ringing at six. For some reason, people who walk around with a badge believe that to be an acceptable hour to wake us up. If you haven’t slept when that happens, there will be another murder tomorrow, and you will be the one who commits it.”
I press my face to my hands and then look at him. “I need to work the case. What if he kills again tomorrow night?”
“Why would he even feel the need to act that quickly? He’ll want to revel in the fear and discomfort he’s created. And he’ll want to know what you’re going to do next.”
“You’re right,” I say. “I’m just not sure I’ve ever gone to bed after a case like this without writing down notes.”
“Not every case is like this one, bella. We’ve established that. I know you and you’ll be back on your game in the morning. Sleep this off like you would a strong drink.”
“Or too much chocolate,” I murmur, wishing this situation was as easy as either scenario we’ve just presented.
Nevertheless, my bones are weary and my mind cluttered. I’m going to bed.
And I’m going to wake up a new me. Or at least the version of me who suppresses everything I’m not willing to remember. The one who doesn’t lose her shit in an elevator unless it involves stupid people. Which, of course, would be perfectly acceptable.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I drift into slumber and find myself caught in a familiar nightmare...
There is blood in the ocean.
I don’t notice it at first, but then, most people don’t. It’s called denial. We refuse to see what we eventually have to cope with, or perhaps even confess. For the innocent, they don’t expect the brutality of the actions required to take a life, so they simply cannot process the inconceivable. For the guilty, it’s all about denying your own ability to do such a thing, and denial can be a slow, brutal sword that carves you from the inside out. Though there is another class of people that are more animal than human. Those so sick, so demented, that they feel a fleeting joy from death, and then seek more joy by doing it again. And again. You won’t find guilt in their eyes. You won’t find remorse. There are times when I’ve felt like one of those animals, but then the guilt starts again.
But you see, there is no remorse. I’m not sure what that says about me.
And so I walk on the beach, not seeing what is there, and it’s like so many other walks along East Hampton’s beach. Cool sand between my toes. The taste of salt on my lips. A gust of wind lifts my long brown hair from my neck. I see it happening, like I’m above the scene, looking down. Like I’m dead and that other person on the beach is alive. Sometimes I can almost hear that wind whisper my name, too: Lilah. Lilah. As if it’s calling me to a place it knows I must travel to, but I continue to refuse. It is a gentle, soothing caress of a whisper—a seductive promise that acceptance will bring relief, even forgiveness.
The wind lies. It always lies.
But then, that’s why it wants me. Because of my lies. Because it knows how they haunt me. It knows my secrets when no one else knows. Only that’s a lie too, and I blink to find the only other person who does know in the distance, and he’s closing in quickly.
He walks toward me, graceful and good-looking, his suit ridiculously expensive, the wet sand beneath his black lace-up shoes impossibly smooth everywhere he steps. But then he’s a man who easily convinces people he walks on water, so why not sand? A man whose accomplishments are second only to his arrogance, while his charisma is just one of his many weapons. He can kiss a woman and make her crave more—he certainly did that to me—but I remind myself that this does not make me naive, as he also has the power to utter only a word and have grown men follow him. He is the picture of perfection that very few see is framed with broken glass. But I see. I know things about him no one else knows.