Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Hopefully then, I would be too fucking tired to do anything other than take a shower, fall into bed, and crash.
So that was what I did, getting home around eight that night, and taking a long, cold shower to ease the aching in my muscles, before sticking the lasagne in the oven.
One hour at three-fifty. Maybe a little extra, depending on your stove.
That was the note my ma had left on the top.
I was standing there in the kitchen drinking a scotch when I heard it.
Frantic slamming on my door.
“The fuck?” I hissed, putting my glass down with a clink, then moving through the house, pausing only to grab a gun out of my closet, then making my way toward the door.
“August! Open up!” a borderline hysterical voice called.
But a very familiar voice.
Traveler.
My fucking hands fumbled with the locks before I finally started to slide it. But I barely got it fully open before Traveler was launching herself at me, catching me off-guard enough to stumble back a foot or two as my arm went around her instinctively.
“Trav, what’s,” I said, putting down my gun.
She didn’t answer though.
She couldn’t.
Not with her entire fucking body trembling.
Not with how a sob caught, then broke free as the tears started to wet my shirt.
“Okay. It’s alright,” I said, kicking the door closed, and wrapping her up tighter, knowing there was no getting anything out of her until she calmed down a bit. Even if my mind was racing with all the possibilities of what happened. “Everything’s gonna be alright,” I said, rubbing my hand up and down her spine as she let herself fall apart for a moment.
But this was Traveler.
It was just a moment.
Before she was trying to pull the pieces back together, sniffling hard, removing her hands from around me, and scrubbing at her eyes and cheeks.
“Okay,” I said, hands going to her upper arms, pushing her back slightly, then reaching for her hands that were hiding her face, and pulling them down. “Why don’t you tell me what—what the fuck?” I snapped, not meaning for the words to come out as loud and angry as they did. But when I saw the bruises across her throat, there seemed to be no other way to react.
“I was attacked,” she said, voice small. Whether that was from shock, upset, or the fact that the woman had been fucking strangled was anyone’s guess.
“I see that,” I said, trying to force my voice to be calm. “Are you hurt anywhere else?” I asked, seeing bruises forming on her face, but there wasn’t enough swelling that I was worried about anything being broken.
“I need your phone,” she said, clarity finally breaking through her gaze. “Mine was missing. Please,” she begged.
I wasn’t going to get anywhere with her if I pushed her.
“Okay,” I said, turning to rush back into the kitchen, coming back with my cell, and handing it over.
She dialed with shaky hands, and lifted it to her ear.
“Come on come on come on,” she hissed. But the call clearly went to voicemail. She wasn’t giving up, though, dialing again. Then again. Then, finally, leaving a message. “Dad, it’s me. Please call me back.”
Then she tried a text.
Then another.
“Hey, tell me what’s going on, so I can help,” I demanded, reaching to cover the phone and her hands with my own.
Taking a deep breath, she winced, then coughed a little, but nodded.
“I went home after work with my Uncle Stan—“
“I didn’t think you had family,” I said. It wasn’t the time for family trees, but I couldn’t seem to help myself.
“My dad has friends that he went through the Academy with. Chuck, Don, and Stan. They’re taking turns keeping an eye on me while he does… whatever he’s been doing. Chuck was with me all night, then we met Don at the store. Don was supposed to stay with me, but he had a family emergency. So it was just me and Stan going back to my house. And a patrol car.”
“Okay,” I said, nodding when she paused.
“I went to take a shower while we waited for food to be delivered. When I came out, the food had been delivered and was on the counter, but Stan was missing. I walked out back to call him, to see where he went, and that’s when I was attacked,” she said.
“Baby, details,” I demanded softly.
“I was hit,” she said, motioning toward her face. “Then I fell off the porch, and was dragged back up and into the house by my hair,” she said.
“Did you see the attacker?” I asked, knowing that getting the details when they were as fresh as possible was key.
“No,” she admitted, jaw going tight. “He pulled me into my room by my hair, then climbed on my back and started to strangle me. I, ah, I assumed that he wouldn’t know how long it actually took to strangle someone to death, so I kind of… played dead.”