Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 76697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
“Mayson wanted to come himself, but he’s tied up on a case,” Detective Frank says, and I focus on him, blinking in surprise. Why would Cobi want to come himself? “He also gave me this to give to you.” He hands me my purse and the plastic shopping bag.
I open the plastic bag, seeing a pair of sweats and a plain white shirt. Cobi sent clothes for me? What the heck?
“He didn’t have to do this.” I hold up the T-shirt. “My friend would’ve brought me clothes when she came to pick me up,” I inform him.
“We spoke before I came here. We think it’d be better if your friend doesn’t come inside to pick you up, and Mayson doesn’t want you having to wander the hospital in that gown or to have to go home in it.” Okay, there was a lot there to take in, but before I have a chance to reply, he continues. “He also said you still need to give your statement. You up for that right now?”
I’m not really up for it, but still I want this done. “I’d like to get it over with.”
His face softens. “How about you call whoever is picking you up then go change. We should be done by the time they get here.”
“Right.” I dig into my purse and pray my phone is there, and then pray it’s still charged. When I see it is, I call Brie to let her know I’m being released, and Frank tells me where she should meet me. When I hang up with her, I go to the bathroom, taking the plastic bag with me.
I change quickly, ignoring the fact that the shirt smells like what I imagine Cobi would smell like—mysterious and masculine. I also ignore the fact that both the shirt and sweats are huge on me, meaning they possibly belong to him. It’s odd enough that he sent something for me to wear; I don’t think I could handle knowing they actually belong to him. After I’m dressed, I sit with Frank, who records my statement while writing it down in a spiral notebook that he pulls from his back pocket. When we’re done, just like what was promised, I’m escorted through the hospital and out a back door to where Brie is waiting for me.
“Have your parents called?”
At Brie’s question, I finish buckling my seat belt then look at her. “No.” And they haven’t. I got a couple of messages from people both Brie and I work with, but nothing from my parents. It’s not surprising. My mom and dad either don’t know what’s going on, or are so high and drunk they don’t care about what happened.
“Seriously?” she asks, putting her car in reverse and backing out of her parking spot right next to the door I just exited through.
“They never call me unless they need something,” I remind her, and her face tightens in anger.
“Your face is all over the news, along with the fact that you were shot at. Ken has been calling me all day asking if I’ve heard from you. He’s worried, and you know he never worries about anything.” She’s wrong; Kenyon, her fiancé, worries all the time. Maybe not about day-to-day crap, but he’s protective of the people he cares about, and because I’ve been best friends with Brie since forever and have known him since they started dating when we were freshmen in college, he’s protective of me too.
“Kenyon also cares about me. My parents don’t and they never have.”
“You’re their daughter, their daughter who could have died last night.” She hits the steering wheel in frustration.
“My parents aren’t like your mom and dad were, Brie. You know that.”
“Have I told you how much I hate them?”
“Not long ago, you went off on an hour-long rant about how much you hate them. So yeah, you’ve told me,” I mumble, and she glances at me and frowns.
“I do not rant. What is with you and Ken saying I rant all the time?”
I don’t reply, because I seriously am not in the mood for her to start ranting right now. “Um, where are we going?” I ask when we miss the turn for my street.
“I’m taking you home with me. Ken and I want you to stay with us until we know you’re good to be on your own.”
“I’m not staying at your place.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Brie, I love you to death. You are the sister I never had. But there is no way in hell I’m staying with you and Kenyon. You only have one bedroom, and a couch that was made to look at, not made to lounge on.”
“Our couch is comfortable,” she argues, knowing that’s an out-and-out lie. It’s a beautiful, white leather couch, but it’s hard as a rock and seriously uncomfortable to even sit on.