Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 125845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 629(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 629(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
Dr. Davis turns to glower at me. “What holding cell?”
I wave off the question. “Please. Albertson.” Somehow my voice sounds calm.
The uniformed man throws a discreet glance over his shoulder, then dips his head in a tiny nod and allows us to rush past him.
We skid to a stop about twenty yards from the entrance of the dormitory. Near the front doors, several officers are engaged in intent conversation with a man in a suit. The dean, I realize. Other faculty members are also present, along with a small crowd of observers that the cops are trying to corral to one area.
Dr. Davis grabs my arm suddenly. I flinch, because his steel grip is definitely going to leave a bruise. “Do you know how to get up there?” he demands.
I hesitate. Because I do know. It’s not a well-kept secret that Bristol is the place to go if you want to hang out on the roof and smoke J’s. But the wild look in his eyes tells me it’s not a wise idea for him to be anywhere near Demi right now. Hell, I can barely keep my own cool, and she’s my girlfriend. I can’t imagine how I’d feel if I was looking up there at my daughter.
Fear and desperation form a lethal cocktail in my bloodstream. My hands won’t quit shaking. I can barely stay upright without stumbling, and my bare arms are covered with goose pimples.
“Even if I did, there’s no way the cops are letting us enter that building. I think we’re gonna have to stay out here.”
Rage burns hot in his dark eyes. “And you claim to give a shit about my daughter?”
“I do give a shit.” I exhale weakly. “Dr. Davis. Marcus. Look at her—look at them.”
His anger dissolves into agony as he tilts his head back. His scalp is shiny under the glow of the streetlamp at the foot of the path.
“Trust her,” I urge.
He blinks. “What?”
“Just trust her. I know you want to run up there and storm the roof, but all you’re going to do is scare the shit out of TJ. Trust me, if I was up on that ledge and you came out…?” I shake my head in warning. “You’ll make things worse, I promise you that. I know how much you love your daughter—I mean, you drove all the way from Boston to order me to stay away from her. Which I still don’t understand, by the way, because I’ve done nothing but love that girl with all my heart. And because I love her, I have faith in her.”
He visibly gulps. His massive Adam’s apple bobs like there’s a whole other entity in his throat.
“She’s so smart,” I tell him. “And she knows what she’s doing—she and I spent the entire semester working on a project that required her to pretend to be my therapist. If anyone can get through to TJ, it’s her. Trust her.”
All the fight seems to drain out of him. His massive shoulders sag.
After a second of hesitation, I reach over and touch his arm reassuringly.
His eyes narrow at first, but then his expression softens. “You do love her,” he says brusquely.
“Yes.”
We both turn our attention back to Demi. Time ceases to exist. It’s frozen like the air. Frozen like the ground beneath my feet. Frozen like the fear in my heart. Minutes pass, or maybe it’s hours. Days. I don’t know.
What I do know is that I don’t breathe easy until Demi finally takes TJ’s hand and safely helps him off the ledge.
41
Demi
I’m in shock. My entire body is ice-cold and trembling like a leaf in a windstorm. My eyes are blinking and in focus, but I don’t see anything. My ears are working but no sounds register. When I exit the front doors of Bristol House and spot Hunter and my father standing off to the side, I assume they’re not real. A figment of my imagination, a product of my shock. So I keep walking with my arm around TJ.
“Demi.”
I stop. Because that did sound real. That sounded like my father.
But the cops are now closing in on us, distracting me from my dad. TJ looks as shocked as I feel, panic swamping his eyes when one of the officers tries to lead him toward the ambulance.
“I don’t need to go to the hospital,” he protests. “Demi.”
“Yes, you do,” I say quietly, giving him a tight squeeze. “You need to talk to somebody about what happened tonight.”
“I talked to you.”
He did, but I’ve done as much as I can. The fact that he seriously contemplated suicide and took action to try to implement it, is beyond my capabilities. Plus, he has no choice but to go to the hospital. They’ll probably admit him into the psych ward and keep him under observation for seventy-two hours to ensure he doesn’t harm himself or others.