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)
Absolutely not.
I will resist.
With one last silent, mutinous look at Grant—knowing damned well I’m being every bit the brat he thinks I am—I turn and walk out the door without saying a single thing in response.
In hindsight, rushing out of my house in nothing but his jacket, an oversized t-shirt, athletic shorts, a too-thin cardigan, and flip-flops was probably not the smartest move.
Dumber idea?
Walking home in the dark without the jacket alone.
In North Carolina in the middle of a biting October night.
I only have myself to blame.
But the teenage girl inside me almost wishes Grant would chase after me, just to make sure I get home safe.
I don’t have any business praying for special favors, though.
Our last run-in should’ve been a good reminder why I can never ask this man for anything.
I sleep so poorly it’s a major chore to drag myself awake.
It’s not just because I’m on edge, waiting to hear strange footsteps on the porch again or listening for ghosts that haunt this little town with too many secrets.
It feels like long, anxious hours lying awake, staring out the bedroom window, watching the leafless branches of gnarled trees clawing at the glass like starving things trying to get in.
Or maybe they’re trying to drag me outside with them and force me to face everything I don’t know I can withstand.
Everything I can’t avoid forever.
When I pry my eyes open and check the time, it’s dawn. I need to be at the medical center first thing.
God, it’s so morbid.
There’s a problem with my mother’s DNR paperwork, something they can’t get ahold of Ros to sort out.
Well, neither can I. She’s ignored my last two voicemails and left my texts on read.
Ugh, what gives?
It’s so strange to come home and still feel like I’m alone when my mom is barely in this world anymore and my sister has just...
Checked out, I guess.
But has she, really?
There’s an annoying lump in my throat as I force myself through a shower, throw down an English muffin with jam, and drag myself out the door with a cup of coffee in hand.
My rental car’s still at Mort’s, so I’m on foot as I make my way through sleepy Redhaven. Its meandering streets flow through rows of picturesque houses that belong in a painting on a hotel wall somewhere.
Redhaven’s a place where everyone walks or bikes unless they don’t have a choice, especially during tourist highs when parking gets crowded.
Everything you could ever want is neatly arranged around the town square in the branching spokes of a wheel, just a few blocks away from wherever you happen to be.
Only, those few blocks feel like a fifty-mile death march by the time I reach the medical center.
Miles of people staring at me as they pop in and out of their cars and shops and houses to start the day.
That annoying double take as they realize I’m not Ros—no, it’s the other sister.
The older one who ran.
The one who never got over what happened to her big brother.
Sure, a few people smile and beam me greetings, or wave and call out, “Welcome home!” But every glance, every hello, every startled welcome carries a weight like an elephant.
The weight of skepticism, surprise, curiosity.
The weight of avid greed, strangers asking for more of the scandal that’s so personal to me, no matter how I try to run from it.
The weight of pity.
Oh, that poor girl.
All these years thinking her brother was a murderer when he’s just been dead all along with the Graves girl. Guess he really did love her after all.
They’re wrong.
I never thought Ethan was a murderer. The very idea was so ridiculous it made me gag.
I’ve always known there was more to the story than anyone dared guess. But I can’t think about that right now.
Not when I’m standing outside my mother’s hospital room, looking in through the observation window at her and wondering when the woman who raised me became so small under the sheets.
So old.
It’s not like I haven’t seen her regularly.
I always fly her out for holidays, random visits, a few times a year just for brunches and long weekends before she headed back home. But the slow march of years crept up unnoticed until it’s like she’s aged thirty years since I last saw her.
The last time was in my Florida condo, sitting serenely in front of the big sunny windows and looking out over the ocean with a small smile. Her beautiful face was aging gracefully with wisdom and peace.
Just last week, she was on the phone with me, talking about how happy she is that I’m coming home, and her voice was so bright I could easily imagine her strong.
But I see the grim truth in front of me now.
I see the quiet battle Mom fought so hard, the ravages of a pain she hid weathered on her face.