Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 123579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
“Which you are, right?” She smiles, resting her head back on my shoulder.
“Far as I know.” I brush my hand over the cool silk of her hair. “I—”
The next story catches my eye, and I stop to tune in.
“Wow, it’s a night for scandal, apparently.” I nod my head toward the screen. “I wonder how that prick Kyle Manchester will handle this. I knew I didn’t like him for a reason.”
Sofie stiffens beside me, pulling away completely and sitting up on the edge of her seat, eyes glued to the screen.
The headline proclaims that some intern is accusing Kyle Manchester of raping her years ago. Apparently the statute of limitations is up, but Shaunti Miller wanted to step forward and speak out before Manchester is elected senator next year.
“Brave girl.” I rub Sofie’s back, but it’s not soft and yielding. The muscles are tight like marble under my hands. “Sof? You okay, darlin’?”
The endearment keeps slipping out. Chalk it up to my Southern roots. Or maybe the fact that my dad always called my mom that, and…shit. I need to slow down. My mom and dad? If Sofie even suspected that’s where I went in my head, she’d probably change her phone number. But right now, that seems to be the least of her concerns. She’s on her feet, walking in tiny circles like a wind-up toy. Pushing her hair back. Wrapping her arms around her body.
“Sofie, are you okay?” I stand and stop her pacing, holding her by the shoulders. “What’s wrong?”
She lifts her eyes to me and lies. Just as sure as I know my own name, I know she’s lying.
“Nothing.” She creases her mouth into a smile as fake as the tofu in her takeout. “I’m fine. Just tired. Mind if we call it a night?”
I look back at the screen, seeing pictures of Manchester smiling that too-white politician smile and the young woman accusing him of rape. I was so distracted by the Collective drama, it’s taking me time to assemble things in my mind, but now I remember Sofie’s reaction to Manchester at the dinner the night we met. The silent messages they exchanged with each glance until she left the table like she was being chased.
Motherfucker.
“Did he hurt you?” It comes out harsher than I intended, the abrasion of my tone making her jump slightly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to…Sofie, did Kyle Manchester hurt you?”
She drops a curtain over her eyes, over her whole face, and lies to me again.
“No.” She shakes her head adamantly. “No, of course not. I just…we went to high school together. He’s one of my father’s associates. So, I was, um, shocked, of course. That’s all.”
“Sofie, you know you can tell me if—”
“I have early meetings.” She steps out of my hold, adjusting her sweatshirt until her shoulder is covered, gripping the fabric with white knuckles. “Can we talk tomorrow?”
This is another time when I want to push because if he did what I think he did, I’ll crush Kyle Manchester. But Sofie looks more fragile than I’ve ever seen her. Strain paints a tight, white circle around her mouth. Her eyes are dark, the pupils stretched like she’s in shock. And when I take her hands and raise them to my lips, they’re cold. She is like ice, so frozen she could shatter with just the slightest pressure. So I don’t press right now. I just drop a kiss on her hair and walk out the door.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Sofie
I stare at the sketches splayed across my desk, but don’t see them. I haven’t really seen anything since that report last night on Kyle and the woman accusing him of raping her eight years ago. His face and hers burn my retina, leaving a phantom impression that eclipses everything else. His face—confident and smug. Hers—resolved, but frightened.
I give up. I’m useless today.
I push away from the desk, spinning my seat around to consider the busy street outside my window. I could have been uptown, in the heart of New York City’s business world, but I chose Soho for my office. A little slower. A hub for artisans. Charming. It’s a little more of a drive each day, but Baker doesn’t mind having the extra minutes with me, I don’t think.
“Sof,” Stil says from my office door.
I drag my eyes away from the street below, forcing myself to meet my friend’s stare.
“Yeah, Stil. What’s up?”
“Walsh is on the line.” She raises one brow and runs her tongue over her front teeth. “He says he’s been calling your cell all morning.”
“I’ve been busy.” I shrug, glancing at the phone on the edge of my desk.
Stil walks into the office, running her fingers over the same three sketches on the desk’s surface from an hour ago.
“Yes, I see you’re making so much progress here.”