Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 60965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
“Just like that,” Millard says, repeating my words and looking back over his shoulder before walking across the street. I follow him and wait. Always waiting for what’s next.
He opens his car’s passenger door and says, “Home, Mr. Thatcher?”
I shake my head no. A gust of wind blows by and the air seeps through my clothes, chilling me to the bone. Mr. Millard waits, as if expecting me to change my mind. But I’m not interested. I shake my head again, shoving my hands in my pockets.
My lawyer clears his throat and looks toward the station before shutting the door with a click and walking toward me. His oxford shoes crunch the snow beneath him as he leans in closer to me and says, “Don’t tell anyone anything.” He lets out a breath and it turns to fog in the air as he looks behind him one last time.
“It’s going to take a couple of months for this to die down, of course. But the evidence found on the scene that could tie you to murder has been dismissed already. It’s a matter of finding motive and suspects now. The judge is never going to charge a Thatcher, and he doesn’t want any digging around the circumstances of your father’s death.” For the first time, Mr. Millard looks at me as if he thinks I may have done it, but there’s no contempt, no disgust, only curiosity behind his eyes.
“For you, it’s over. A few months, and it’s all buried. Just stay quiet and don’t talk to anyone. Don’t give them a reason to come back to you. As far as they know, they followed you there, there was an altercation but a fourth unknown individual shot them both. Evidence proves you didn’t fire a gun. They can’t change that; they can only hunt down a fourth… and you have no idea of that person’s identity. If anyone asks, you’re only grateful he didn’t shoot you too.”
I nod my head, feeling the weight of everything and how it all seems heavier for some reason. Knowing how unjust it is. That a select few have already decided the fate of the case.
I’m a hypocrite, because it’s what I did when I saw that look in Anderson’s eyes. The smile on his face as I left his office. I did the same. His fate was sealed. Even a glance at the photograph on his desk didn’t stop me.
I saw her. I knew he was married. I knew she was his. I told myself I didn’t care and that it didn’t matter. He had to die.
It’s that overwhelming feeling of power that made the first domino tip as I turned my back on him, knowing his fate was decided.
“Thank you, Mr. Millard,” I say and turn away from the station, away from him and toward the crowded streets of the city.
I didn’t know how the other dominoes would fall. And the judge and the lawyers, they have no idea either. So many pieces tumbled over. So many lives affected.
There’s only one who matters to me.
Only one I need to keep safe.
Her piece is bound to fall if I touch her. I almost ruined her once. I won’t do it again.
I was never any good for her. I should have stayed away if I loved her, and I think I did even all that time ago. I think I loved her before I ever heard that sweet laugh. Before I saw her gorgeous lips and that sadness in her beautiful doe eyes that she hid from everyone but me. I think I loved her even then.
And I should have stayed far away.
Jules
They say if you love someone, you should let them go.
That’s all I keep thinking over and over as I stare out the windows of the penthouse, staring blankly at the city skyline. Mason’s been out for over twenty-four hours now. I knew the second he walked out, and I waited. And waited. I owe him and all I can think is that if I send him a message, I’m going to beg him for even more. That’s not fair and that’s not right.
I swallow thickly, and my dry throat sends a spike of pain running through me. Or maybe it’s my heart. I’m not sure which. I shake my head, turning abruptly and walk over to the kitchen to fix myself some coffee. If he wanted to speak to me, he would have come or he would have called. The fact is, he doesn’t want me. Why did it take me this long to realize that wanting him and loving him wasn’t enough?
He hasn’t called, hasn’t sent a text. I take a steadying breath, balancing myself on a padded barstool at the island counter and then gripping the hot mug of coffee with both hands. The ceramic mug has veins of gold running through the thick cream pottery. I focus on it and drift my finger over the raised texture remembering how he used to trail his fingers down my lips before kissing me.