Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 101667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
It made me admire her strength even more. Later, I rode into town after dark, parked down the street from where she lives, and walked to her apartment, my dark clothes blending into the shadows. I found out a while ago that she still lives in this place with the ironic name. I’ve checked up on her whereabouts a few times since I found her that day last year although, if you asked me why, I wouldn’t have a good answer. I just needed to know. I stood outside the facility she lives in and watched her window like the creeper I am. I needed to see her again, even from afar, just to make sure she hadn’t been a figment of my imagination. And she wasn’t. I’m pretty sure she saw me standing there as she peered down from her window, and I wondered if she realized it was me or if she had completely forgotten about me.
I wanted her to know it was me.
I wanted her to know I was watching her.
I wanted a small shiver of apprehension to creep up her spine.
I wanted to be responsible for igniting a feeling in a soul just as lonely and broken as my own.
On my ride back home under the moonlight, I’d been determined to put her out of my head, because nothing good can come of me obsessing over a woman. But twice today she showed up, surprising me both times with her hypnotic chatter despite my ignoring her.
Why the hell she’d be walking through the woods completely alone, after what happened to her in those same woods, I don’t know. It’s totally fucked up. Does she have no fear? Harboring a death wish maybe?
I can relate to that.
I felt bad toward the end, and that’s why I wrote her the note. Her puffy eyes and tear-stained cheeks and the heaviness of the defeat in her voice got to me bad. It bothered me that she wasn’t living at home with her family, and she couldn’t keep her own damn dog.
Years ago, before my accidents, I would be at my mom’s animal shelter when the lost dogs were reunited with their families. The owners were always so happy to get them back. They would hold onto the dog extra tight and cry with relief. Second chances make people more grateful and make them pour more love and care into what they thought they’d lost forever.
It makes me sick that a little stolen girl doesn’t seem to be getting that same kind of love.
Three weeks after the girl brought the dog back to me, I’m in my garage fabricating some new metal rings and belt buckles to sell at my brother’s bike shop when a whiff of vanilla and lavender tickles my senses.
I glance up from my work, my vision focusing on the gap where the side door is open a few inches, and there she is—walking toward the front door of my house with a paper bag in her hand and a backpack over her shoulder.
Squinting, I realize it’s the same backpack she had the day I found her.
Strange.
When I don’t answer the door, her head turns, the wind blowing her long blond hair across her face. She scans the yard with a slightly worried look, notices the side door of the garage ajar, and heads this way.
“Shit,” I mutter, quickly untying my hair from its ponytail holder and letting it fall over the messed-up side of my face.
I’m wiping my dirty hands on my jeans just as she pokes her head around the door, and I wish I had closed it and locked it so she would have just gone away. Usually, I don’t have to worry about anyone springing an unwelcome visit on me, but this chick obviously hasn’t picked up on my anti-social rules yet.
She steps inside but stays right by the door, peering around at her surroundings. Her eyes flash with curiosity and a hint of fear as they rove over my massive collection of horror masks, which decorates one wall.
Finally, her eyes land on me. I suppose, compared to the masks, I might seem less scary. At least a little.
I hope.
“Hi.” Her shy, soft voice is so out of place in this space of dirt, noise, and horror. Like white lace being dragged through a puddle of sludge.
I say nothing.
“I hope you don’t mind…I bought some gifts for Poppy.” She holds up the paper bag as evidence. “For Christmas.”
I do mind. She’s not supposed to keep coming back here. Does she think I agreed to some kind of shared custody situation with the dog?
“I could never give him things before,” she continues. A strand of golden hair blown loose by the wind is stuck to her mouth, and I have an incredible urge to brush it away. “And…I was wondering, did you find him after he ran off…that day? Did my parents know you had him?”