Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 106953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
I should’ve never taken her in. I should’ve left her on the street. Someone else would’ve found her and given her a good home. Someone else who didn’t have to shower three times before he came home so the stink of dead people wouldn’t pollute her air. Someone else who didn’t have connections that would strip her of her innocence and violate her in ways that shouldn’t be possible.
“We have to go,” I say hoarsely.
She nods and shoves her legs into the jeans, the sleep shirt riding up to reveal untouched skin and a scrap of lace. I shut my eyes and leave, slamming the door behind me.
She starts crying the minute the door is closed. I lean against the wall and bang my head against it until I can’t hear anything but the ringing of my own ears.
“I’m ready,” she says. Her eyes are red and her cheeks are flushed and she’s so damned beautiful.
I nearly want to cry myself. Instead, I grab her suitcase, shoulder the duffel. “Let’s go,” I say gruffly.
She doesn’t speak to me for the first two hours of our drive. But when dawn breaks through, she can’t hold it in anymore.
“Where are we going?”
“There’s a boarding school in Vermont. You’ll be finishing school there.”
“What? No!” she yells. She grabs at the door handle.
I slam on the brake, sending the car fishtailing wildly. “What the fuck are you doing, Bitsy?”
“I’m not going to any fucking boarding school!” she yells back.
“Stop cursing and yes you are.” I reach across her and slam the door shut.
“No. I’m staying with you. You said I’d always be with you.” Tears are filling her eyes.
Another time, I’d turn the car around, but the image of Beefer’s daughter on that table, staring up at the ceiling wishing for death, has me pressing the gas.
“It’s school, Bitsy.”
“It’s boarding school! We never even talked about this. Where did it come from? Did I do something wrong? Is it the dress? I never wanted to buy that expensive dress. We can take it back. I’ll get the blood stains out.”
I force myself to breathe through my nose until I gain enough composure to answer her. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while now. Time seems right.”
“It’s the middle of the semester!”
“It’s October.”
“Exactly. I have two months left until the end of the semester.”
“And you’ll spend those two months in Vermont.” Along with every other month until Cesaro is out of power. Until the danger is gone. Until…fuck. Until forever because my life is full of danger.
“If you make me leave, I’m not coming back. Do you hear me? Do you?”
“I hear you.”
“Take me back, Leka. I promise whatever I did wrong, I won’t do it again. I promise.” She clutches my arm. Her anguish stabs at my heart, but I knew this day was coming—that at some point, I’d have to give her up.
“It doesn’t matter what you do or don’t do, Bitsy. You’re going.” I punch the gas and watch the speedometer creep past ninety. We can’t get to the boarding school fast enough. I’m afraid I’m going to give in and turn around.
“Is it because of that night at Marjory’s?” she asks quietly.
Bitsy’s never been slow. I hate that she saw that. I should’ve moved her, should’ve kept her away.
“It’s because you’ll be safer,” is all I allow.
“Beefer has kids and so do a couple of other people you work with.”
Yeah, and Beefer’s daughter is never going to be the same again after tonight. I clamp my jaw shut and drive.
She finally gets the hint and slumps back in her seat. The rest of the trip is made in terrible silence. At some point, her tears and exhaustion overtake her and she falls asleep.
I make a few phone calls and then, because suddenly the trip is going by too quick, I slow down. My time with her is ending too soon. I take a thousand mental pictures of her perfect, beautiful face, storing them away in the back of my head. I should’ve taken a real photo.
I fish my phone out of my pocket, and at the stoplight in the small, sleepy town that the Boone School for Girls calls home, I snap a picture. Then another. Then five more.
It’s not enough.
I start up the car again and navigate to the five-hundred-acre farm that is the campus of the Boone School. I park in front of a large yellow house with a wraparound porch and climb out as quietly as possible.
The school administrator, Janet Beatrice, is waiting. I’d texted her a couple of hours ago.
“Mr. Moore, it’s nice to meet such an unexpected but generous benefactor.” The callouses on her hands scrape against my flesh as she wraps her fingers around one of my hands.
“I’m sorry for the short notice,” I tell her. “Elizabeth’s not happy about coming here, but she needs this place.”