Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 138642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 555(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 555(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
I can only hope we dig up something ourselves—and soon.
We need to get to the bottom of this insanity before it’s too late.
21
ONE OF THOSE DAYS (GRANT)
I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing here.
Staring at this almost-dead man like I can magically see through him, divining some answers from his bones.
From somebody’s bones, I guess.
Because goddammit, I really don’t know what to do about finding a whole human body out there in that clearing in the same place Law was bleeding out.
That’s what Raleigh PD forensics dug up in the end.
A complete human skeleton—and they’re gonna want me to have a look at the rotted remnants of clothing to see if I recognize anything.
From the looks of it, the perps stripped the victim naked, buried them, then buried their belongings close by. Not much survived over long years of decomposition besides a leather jacket.
Too much like the jacket Ethan wore when he started riding his motorcycle.
The big asshole just had to play the part, all leather and jeans and tough guy swagger as he grew into a young man. Once, I had to pull him away from a drunken fight with a dude from the Grizzlies MC. It was bad enough that we snuck into the bar without anybody carding us. Worse that this tank of a man was passing through town when Ethan mouthed off and the biker called him out as a ‘chickenshit poser.’
He totally was.
But that boy was my poser and my best friend.
My thoughts are unsettled as hell as I frown at Mason Law.
What were you trying to tell us, old man?
How many more bodies will Raleigh forensics find as they work that clearing, churning up the earth and the devil’s secrets?
One.
Just one awful secret.
You know that’s all it is.
You already know who.
My lip curls into a snarl.
I can’t take this shit.
All these years, I thought I was ready.
Now that there’s a chance we might find out he’s really gone—
Fuck.
In the back of my mind, I’ve been hoping one day he’d show up on my doorstep with a wife and kids or at least some unbelievable story about running off to Argentina—a place Ethan always fantasized about when we were boys because it was so frigging close to Antarctica. He had a hard-on for arctic exploring even though he shook like a leaf all winter.
Go figure.
Ethan, he’d be a little grey, more grizzled than before. Maybe an early midlife pot belly and a set of bristly whiskers, but grinning with that same shit-eating, disarming grin.
Sorry, man. Wish I could’ve told you.
But I just couldn’t take this dull little town anymore.
So you married my sister, huh? Shit, that’s great.
When do I get to meet my niece and nephew?
Stupid.
Stupid fucking cheesy-ass fantasy.
I snort at my own idiocy.
Married to Ophelia with a son and daughter of our own and Nell playing big sister?
Ros safe and sound, busy running the family shop without any goddamned drug-snorting, panty-sniffing Arrendell lunatic in the picture?
Angela Sanderson, miraculously recovered and happily retired?
Then Ethan, coming home to surprise everyone.
Deep down, I knew.
I knew it was fucking hopeless.
Guess I never learned to separate hope from the desperate inner ravings of a madman who could never stop wishing for one more day with his best friend.
I’m a realist at heart with everything but Ethan.
Trouble is, shattering that little fantasy feels like the apocalypse. The end of everything.
Every hope that I could somehow fix things for the Sandersons, a family I care about as much as my own.
Every hope that somehow, some way, everything could still be all right.
Every hope that Ophelia might be so overwhelmed with joy that all her problems would disappear and she’d marry me tomorrow.
Shit, no.
I need to get the fuck out of here.
Head out to the crime scene and meet up with the Raleigh team. Check in with Ophelia and make sure she’s okay after all the scares yesterday.
I hope she’s shaken off a little of her angst.
With any luck, she’s back at home with Nell by now. She’ll probably keep giving me those guilty looks like she did something wrong, and I don’t know how the fuck to tell her she didn’t.
I don’t know how to tell her I’ll wait as long as she needs me to.
Goddammit, Grant.
Get out of your own head and go do something useful.
So I do.
After staring at Mason Law for a few more seconds, I heft myself up with a groan and stretch, rubbing at my ass. I’m sore from over an hour in that little plastic chair. The seats in this joint are fit to put someone in the hospital themselves.
I turn away, grinding my fingertips against the back of my aching neck—only to hear a low moan behind me.
I whirl on my heel.
Law’s eyes twitch, his lips parting on a disturbed groan.
Cautiously, I step closer.