Total pages in book: 10
Estimated words: 9404 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 47(@200wpm)___ 38(@250wpm)___ 31(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 9404 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 47(@200wpm)___ 38(@250wpm)___ 31(@300wpm)
Fred, the doorman, sees me coming. I’m surprised at how dark it is inside. Apart from the emergency lights, the lobby is only dimly lit by the flashing yellow traffic light that comes in from the street.
“Power’s out?”
“Yep. Nothing to worry about. I’m sure it will be back soon, Cristina.”
At least I’m out of the rain, even if I am soaked through.
I drop the useless umbrella into the trash can and take a deep breath in, pushing wet hair back from my face.
Unbuttoning my raincoat, I listen to water drip onto the beautiful marble floor. My shoes squeaking as I make my way into the warm building and toward the stairs.
With the power out, I’m going to have to walk up. We live on the eighth floor. I slide my backpack off one arm and begin the climb.
This is a wealthy part of town, but I guess even money can’t make demands on Mother Nature.
As I climb the last few steps, a strange unease has me slowing. I stop for a moment to listen and realize what it is. It’s quiet. Too quiet. Usually, I can hear my youngest cousin, Simona, playing inside, or the baby of the neighbor in the apartment below ours crying, or music, or a television. Something. But tonight, I hear nothing. And even though I know the power is out, it still feels strange.
My mind wanders back to the events at the library. That smell of aftershave. The roses.
The rain had distracted me enough that I hadn’t thought about any of it once I’d left, but now, it’s all back.
I wonder if there’s a box of dead roses waiting for me inside already.
But no, they won’t come until tomorrow. Whoever sends them keeps to a strict schedule.
Climbing the last of the stairs, I make my way to the double doors directly opposite. Their elegance is an indication of what’s to come just beyond.
My uncle redid the apartment the year I moved in with them. He spared no expense, saying we needed the additional space, although I’m not sure we really did. It went from beautiful to exceptional where it’s even appeared in style magazines.
Something prickles at the back of my neck. My steps are hesitant as I make my way to the door. And I swear I smell roses, but are they real or is my mind playing tricks on me?
I put my hand on the doorknob. Something makes me pause, though. Someone is crying. Simona?
I push the door open quietly.
The foyer is dark, but two candles burn on the table beside the door, and I can see more of them in the living room. That prickling at the back of my neck intensifies when I hear the sound of liquid being poured. Apart from the crying, it’s that quiet.
“Good whiskey,” a man says. A man whose voice sends a chill along my spine. I know that voice. “You have good taste, Adam. I’m surprised.”
“Liam take your sister and go to your room,” Uncle Adam says. I hear the tension in his voice.
“No, stay, Liam.” It’s the other man.
“I’m not going anywhere until this asshole leaves,” Liam says, sounding pissed off.
The man—the asshole, I presume—chuckles.
A heavy silence follows, and Simona continues to quietly sob.
I close the door and steel my spine as I take the few steps that will carry me to the living room. To where this stranger whose voice I recognize is waiting for me.
For me.
I don’t know how I know it, but I have no doubt I’m the reason he’s here.
And when I turn the corner, the scene is unreal. Tension like nothing I’ve felt before.
Liam is sitting on the sofa his expression angry but just beneath that anger, I see uncertainty. Fear, maybe. He’s comforting Simona, my younger cousin, who has her face buried in his shoulder.
He looks up at me, his jaw tight.
My uncle is standing. He’s a large man, well over six feet and built powerfully, but just behind him stand two others. Strangers in dark suits, one with a scar running down the side of his neck.
There’s one other man. The one whose voice I recognize. Whose eyes I still remember. And I have no doubt he’s the one to worry about.
He’s sitting in my uncle’s favorite armchair. No one sits in that chair.
This man, my monster of eight years ago, is the only one whose posture is relaxed.
Leaning back against the worn leather back, he has one leg crossed over the other, right ankle at left knee. His charcoal suit is a shade darker than those of the other men and about a thousand times more expensive. I know good quality. I grew up with it.
His face is softened by the glow of candlelight as he watches me with curiosity. I think how deceptive that light is because I know the hardness inside his strange silvery-gray eyes.