Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
“This is Nigella,” she says, answering on the third ring.
“Nigella. It’s Ophelia.”
“Ophelia. It’s early. Has something happened?”
“They took Silas. The police…” I can’t finish. Why is this happening again? How?
“What? Why?”
“They just came to the house and took him away in handcuffs.” I hear how panicked I sound. “Sullivan Fox is dead.” To say the words, to hear them, makes me shiver with sudden cold.
He’s dead.
“Oh, fuck. And Silas was there.”
“You knew?”
“Where did they take him?” she asks instead of answering my question.
I tell her the address. “I’ll meet you there.”
“No. Just stay put. There won’t be anything you can do for him, Ophelia.”
“Can they just take him like that? I mean, they handcuffed him.”
“He has a history. And if he put up any kind of resistance, which I’m assuming he did…”
“He didn’t do it. He wouldn’t. That’s not him, not at all.”
“I know that. Let me get dressed and I’ll get down there. I’ll call you as soon as I can.”
“I’ll come down.”
“Don’t. There really isn’t anything you can do, and they won’t let you see him anyway. Trust me and let me do my job.”
With a sigh, I end the call and set the phone down on the table beside the bowl where Silas had dropped the keys to the SUV.
I notice the sheets of paper still sitting on the table. The burned pages I hadn’t even had a chance to ask him about.
I leave them where they are and walk into the kitchen.
He’s dead.
Sullivan Fox is dead.
Murdered.
I don’t know what I feel. Don’t know what I’m supposed to feel. I’m numb. I can’t process it just yet. They think Silas killed him. That building has security cameras running 24/7. They’ll have Silas on video coming and going. Given their history, I’m not sure how easy it’s going to be for Nigella to get him home.
My head is swimming. I start to clean up, dumping the uneaten food and scraping burnt bacon from the pan. I’m on autopilot as I try to think about what I can do.
The doorbell rings when I set the last dish in the dishwasher. I assume it’s Hamish, so I pad down the hall to answer but when I pull it open, I’m surprised to see not Hamish, but Ethan standing there.
My first instinct is to slam it shut, but he takes two steps backward so he’s standing on the top step and puts up his hands. “Phee,” he says and something about his voice, the way it breaks, stops me.
He looks like hell. He looks like I’ve never seen him look. He’s wearing jeans and a hoodie that’s too big for him, no coat. It’s freezing. His car is parked behind the SUV. He’s got his hands pushed deep into his pockets and looks up at me from the stair, very clearly unsure of his reception.
“I’m sorry to just show up.” His hands shake as he pulls them out of his pockets and pushes the hood off his head. His hair stands up in all directions. It looks like it hasn’t been combed in days and he hasn’t shaved in that long. Dark circles ring his bloodshot eyes, and his cheeks are flushed with the cold. He shudders. “Can I… I didn’t know where else to go.”
He takes a step forward, but when I take one back, he stops. He holds up his hands again, his palms to me.
“I’m not going to hurt you. I just… What I did… He… Shit, Phee. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I wouldn’t ever… Fuck. It kills me that I hurt you.” He stops, breaking into sobs. His shoulders heave with their force. I’ve never seen him cry. Never once have I seen Ethan Fox even remotely close to tears.
“Jesus, Ethan.” I take a step toward him, stopping when he looks up. “Just come inside. It’s freezing.” I step aside and he makes an attempt at a smile. That dimple on his cheek is almost there, but he tucks his hands back into his pockets and looks down at the ground as he crosses the porch and comes into the house. I notice his shoes then. They’re dirty and worn, the laces ratty. I’ve never seen them before. Ethan would never wear anything so old.
He waits a few feet in, and I close the door.
“You heard?”
I nod, and when he steps toward me, I hesitate for one moment before hugging him, his big body almost not quite fitting with his hunched shoulders and downcast face. His uncertainty.
I’ve known Ethan for a long time. Almost half of my life. It’s on very rare occasions that I’ve seen him be unsure. He’s cocky, arrogant, a man who knows he has the world at his fingertips. A boy who grew up with a literal silver spoon in his mouth.