Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 105506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 422(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 422(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Maybe it was just habit for these men, becoming used to their women being under threat of something horrible happening to them, not accustomed to how to act after the horrible thing already happened. These were men of action; they needed to feel as if they were fulfilling a purpose. Hence the constant presence of someone riding a Harley, wearing a cut and packing a piece.
It might’ve been considered cute…
If it wasn’t infuriating and didn’t make me feel suffocated and trapped, that is. Oh, and wasn’t a constant reminder of what I was: a victim.
At least the world didn’t have that label for me.
The online community of true crime junkies had finally found out about the New Mexico serial killer. Luckily, no one had made up some stupid nickname for him.
Unfortunately, as I’d predicted, the media had focused in on the villain instead of the victims.
Elijah’s—birth name Beau Granger—face was splashed on every news channel, on every social media site, resulting in reporters and wannabe true crime podcasters and YouTubers descending on Garnett and surrounding areas in full force.
The powers of the Sons of Templar might’ve been many, but even the club couldn’t stop society from being morbidly fascinated with serial killers.
What they and Caroline—former kickass journalist—were able to do was make sure that my name didn’t appear in any police reports, so no one knew that I was the surviving victim. The only surviving victim.
And now that the local police were back on the Sons’ payroll, they were able to fudge a lot of the documents about what really happened to Beau, saying he was killed while police were trying to apprehend him, and someone fucked-up by having him cremated too soon.
This was no mean feat since there were a lot of different eyes on our little town, not the least of which was the FBI. The California chapter of the Sons had a pretty impressive hacker who did their magic, and I knew that Ollie also had broken a few federal laws to keep my name and the Sons of Templar outside of the spotlight.
Still, there were individuals and news crews trying to interview the residents of Garnett. Although that didn’t last long since the locals straight up refused to speak to anyone. Julian wouldn’t even let them in his café.
There were still hanger-ons, but since I didn’t get out much, I barely saw them.
That would all change tomorrow.
My fingers thrummed against the kitchen counter as I waited for Colby. The roar of his engine had petered out. Depending on his mood, he might’ve been saying something to the prospect, dismissing him, shooting the shit. But he knew I was up here alone, so even if he was in the mood to chat, he’d likely be rushing up to make sure I hadn’t slit my wrists or anything.
I didn’t miss the way everyone was watching me, practically holding their breath, waiting to see which way I’d go.
It made sense. They didn’t even know what I’d been through, not in detail. But the men had seen the state I was in, and it was likely they’d shared some of that with their wives. So understandably, they were waiting to see if I’d try to check out.
The idea was tempting.
I’d thought it over half a dozen times. How it would be easier on everyone to no longer have to stare at the relic of such a horrific crime, how Colby could abandon whatever sense of duty he felt toward me and find a woman who wasn’t scarred and soured. It would be easier for me too. Waking up every day, walking, talking, breathing was a fucking effort. Everything was so hard. So painful. Death offered a sweet respite.
But I couldn’t. Couldn’t do it to myself. To Violet. To my friends who cared about me.
Most of all, I couldn’t let him win. Because that’s what he’d wanted, after all. Me dead. If that was the end result of all of this, then he got what he wanted. And though the peace that death offered was mighty tempting, I would never let a man win.
My ears perked up at the low thump of Colby’s motorcycle boots against the hardwood hallway.
My hands started shaking as I stopped thrumming it on the counter.
Unable to sit still, I jumped from my stool, smoothing down the dress I was wearing self-consciously.
I was never self-conscious about my fashion sense. That kind of stuff always came naturally to me. Not that I was ever allowed to wear any of the things I wanted to while growing up. And when I was old enough to get a part-time job and buy the clothes I wanted, there were daily yelling matches between my parents and I about my ‘attire.’
When I earned money, the big money—from taking off my clothes behind the camera—I started buying the clothes I really wanted.