Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 82651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
I note that I have texts from Etta, Coach Pretore, Alex Crossman, my agent, Dan Silvers, Lucas, and Max.
My heart sinks as I take in the fact that something has happened that has a variety of different people in my life contacting me.
“Van?” Simone asks hesitantly.
I don’t answer, but roll right out of bed, feeling the need for some distance and space. I feel the need because an overwhelming sense of panic hits me from nowhere, and I think I might choke on it.
My hands shake as I take a few steps from the bed, my shoulders hunched as a shaking finger taps on Etta’s message first. There are actually several and I read them in reverse order, scrolling backward.
The most recent came in just moments ago.
It will be fine. I promise. Call me as soon as you get this.
The next about ten minutes prior to that.
It’s not that bad. A lot of hypotheses. It will die.
The first just a few minutes before that.
Article is out in Sports World. Attached is link. It’s also on the news. I’m sorry, sweetie. We’ll get through this. Call me.
I don’t call Etta as requested, and click on the link.
“Van?” Simone calls again. “What’s wrong?”
“The article came out apparently,” I mutter as I wait for the site to load. I hear Simone get out of the bed and feel another moment of acute panic as she walks toward me. I swallow hard against it, and force myself to hold my phone down at an angle so she can see the article when it loads.
When it appears on the screen, her sharp intake of breath is a good indication of how shitty this article will be.
The headline reads THE UNKNOWN MADNESS OF VAN TURNER.
“What the ever-loving fuck?” Simone hisses in outrage, and yet I suddenly feel an emptiness welling up inside of me.
My eyes scan the article, but I take in very little. Phrases and concepts leap out at me. I see the small photograph of the reporter, Jack Vernicki. I have almost no physical reaction to the fact that I recognize him as the man who sat next to me in the waiting room at the prison. He’d said he was seeing a family member, but it’s clear that was a lie. In fact, I’m figuring the way this went down is he was there for a news article, and he recognized me. He questioned me specifically why I was there, and then he heard the guard call my old name, Grant VanBuskirk.
I guarantee you he researched that name and hit pay dirt, linking Van Turner to the little kid whose father slaughtered innocents. And here I thought Arco was to blame.
I know I’m likely to hurl my phone into the wall if I read the article, so I ignore it, flipping back to my texts. Simone gives a tiny snarl of outrage, and I barely hear her say, “I wasn’t done reading that.”
Not my fucking problem.
I scan the texts, barely paying attention to Simone as she scrambles back across the bed to grab her phone. I assume she’s going to look up the article, but I don’t need to know anything about it. The headline told me everything.
Vernicki was exploiting the insanity angle of my father’s case. Arco’s attorneys pleaded not guilty by reason of insanity, hinging their arguments on a psychiatric diagnosis of antisocial personality disorder with sociopathic tendencies, or some shit like that. I don’t quite remember.
Vernicki wants to make big headlines, so he’s going to exploit my greatest fear. That people would think me just like Arco.
My stomach rolls as I flip through the texts.
Coach Pretore wanting to meet with me immediately.
My agent wanting to hire a public relations expert for “cleanup.”
Alex Crossman wants to meet as well, probably just to offer the support of his captaincy.
And Lucas and Max both want to know if I’m okay.
I can’t even respond to any of them. I don’t know what to say. More important, I don’t want to open the door to conversation about this. I want to be left the fuck alone, because that has worked well for me my entire life.
“Oh, this is bad,” Simone murmurs, and my head turns to find her kneeling on the bed. Gloriously naked and without giving a self-conscious shit about it. Huddled over her phone, reading the article.
“What does it say?” I ask flatly. At a minimum, I need the Cliff Notes version.
Her head turns, eyes filled with sorrow for me. “It’s a recap of Arco’s case, and that the reporter recognized you at the prison. He linked you by your old name, took some photos as you got into your car too. Acknowledges that court records of your adoption are sealed and that Etta Turner refused comment.”
“That much I could figure out,” I mutter as I go to my suitcase, pulling out a pair of jeans. When I hazard a glance back at her, I find the weight of her stare heavy.