Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 109096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 545(@200wpm)___ 436(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 545(@200wpm)___ 436(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
There's one thing I'm already sure about – her so-called parents are pieces of shit. I've seen her stepfather strike her, and it took everything I had in me not to storm into their house and rip her out of his abusive claws. Her mother's a drug addict, but not in the quiet, ashamed way Sam was. Willa's mom doesn't give a shit. She'll snort coke in front of her daughter. She'll do anything she can get her hands on just so she can be in a perpetual state of numbness. Her forgotten daughter is left to fend for herself.
She must be six or seven years old. She walks to school alone, with me trailing behind her in the shadows to make sure she's okay. She's brave. She doesn't let anyone put her down. At school, she's alone. Sometimes, she eats her lunch in the bathroom. Sometimes, she sits by herself in the enclosed sitting area by the school.
That's where I choose to make contact again.
I wait until the school day is over. I wait until she's walking home, and peel my back from the shadows. She notices me right away, grinning wide as her eyes meet mine.
"Hey, Willa."
"Hello," she replies, still a little cautious. "Your scar is healing."
I nod, even though it's fucking painful, because it reminds me of how much time has passed since I've spoken to Dove.
"I got you something."
Her eyes light up as I pull out a crumpled brown paper bag. I've noticed she only eats at school. Her mother doesn't even check if she's hungry, and there's rarely something for her to eat at their house.
First, Willa pulls out some nutritional bars. She makes a face, making me chuckle darkly.
"They're not that bad," I promise her. "You can keep them hidden in your room. For when you're really hungry."
Her eyes light up. "How did you know?"
"Don't ask," I grin. "Check the bag, there's something else."
She keeps digging underneath the stacks of bars. "Oh!"
Her little hand pulls out the plushie. It's a grizzly bear, with feather-soft fur and eyes that almost look intelligent.
"He'll keep you safe," I tell her. "And we'll make a little deal."
"What kind of deal?" She holds the teddy close, unwilling to let go, as if I'm going to take him away already.
"Sometimes I walk by your house," I go on easily. "So, if you put the bear in your bedroom window, I'll know you're okay. And if you don't, I'll know something's wrong and you need my help."
"Okay," she nods thoughtfully. "I can do that."
"Great. You should go back home now, your mother is probably waiting."
She hesitates, drawing circles in the sand with her foot. "You promise you'll help me?"
"Yeah."
"I won't tell my mom about you."
I laugh out loud. "Yeah, you shouldn't, kid."
"I'll see you soon?" She turns her hopeful eyes to mine.
"I hope not," I grin. "Unless something's wrong."
She smiles, tucking the bear back inside the bag. When she looks up, I'm already gone, but she doesn't seem surprised. She starts taking small steps toward her home, dragging the bag with her. She looks so small. SO vulnerable. And I sure as fuck don't need another helpless creature to take care of, to be my responsibility. But I can't help myself.
***
I return to the hotel room with a heavy mind, my shoulders slumped. At least the front desk girl has ignored me since the scar, since she saw Dove.
After a hot shower in the shitty bathroom, I dig out my phone and find another slew of missed calls. Hodge has been calling. What the fuck does he want now?
Reluctantly, I call him back. He answers on the second ring, as if he's been waiting by the phone.
"Nox. I've been waiting for your call."
I swallow my frustration, silently wondering why I'm such a piece of shit to this man who's done nothing to deserve it. "What's up?"
"I was hoping we could talk about the exhibition again."
I groan. I should've seen this coming. He's constantly pressuring me about the same shit. "I don't want to do an exhibition."
"I know, but it would help your recognition so much. We could sell more. Have you been painting?"
I glance around the crappy motel room. I haven't touched a paintbrush in months. I have a sketchbook that I'll draw in with charcoal, but that's it. "No."
"You should come back to New York, Nox. It's your home after all."
He's quietly insistent, never pushing too hard. The man is a goddamn saint, but it only makes me hate him more. And I'm starting to realize why. He reminds me of my father. And for some reason, hurting him makes me feel better.
"I can't leave LA."
"Why not?"
I hesitate, unsure of my own answer. What the fuck am I supposed to tell him? Definitely not the truth.
"I can't. Not yet. I got people here counting on me," I finally mutter. Dove and Willa's images fill my mind. I can't walk away from them. I can't break these obsessions. I have to keep going.