Total pages in book: 213
Estimated words: 201920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1010(@200wpm)___ 808(@250wpm)___ 673(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 201920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1010(@200wpm)___ 808(@250wpm)___ 673(@300wpm)
“Please don’t,” I whimper where I am. The pain flows as freely as the fear of seeing her again. I wish I could run.
“So, did I, baby girl,” my mother responds to my unspoken thoughts. “Or for someone to help me,” she adds.
I hear footsteps behind me and my heart pounds harder and faster. The adrenaline in my body is useless.
On instinct, I scream for help, but my voice is so quiet.
“No one can hear you, baby girl.” She’s closer. My body trembles and I try so hard to move, but not a single limb obeys. I try my fingers. One by one, please. Please move, but nothing moves. I’m cemented where I am.
“Well, maybe they can, but they don’t listen.”
The chill from the night air gets colder as a darker shadow covers my body. She’s behind me now. I try to swallow, so I can clear my throat and beg her, but it’s pointless.
“It’s time for your lullaby,” she threatens.
“I promise I’ll sleep.” My words come out as a strangled plea. I remember the way the heavy base of the glass vodka bottle landed against my temple. She didn’t sing it like this, so calmly. It started out this way though. And once she started, she never stopped. Not until I was unconscious. She knew when I was pretending. She always knew.
“Go to sleep,” she sings to me in a gravelly voice, dry and slurred from drinking, “go to sleep, lit-tle Chlo-e.”
Tears stream down my cheeks.
“Close your eyes, rest your head.”
Remembering how she beat me furiously with the bottle.
She drags her finger across my skin, trailing along the curve where my neck meets my shoulders. Her nail is jagged and slick with fresh blood. Pulling my hair behind my neck so she can whisper in my ear, she finishes the lullaby, “It’s time for bed.”
SEBASTIAN
I debate on sending the text. I’m staring at the phone in my hand like I’m back in high school.
You didn’t go to work today either?
The words stay right where they are, waiting for me to send them. I know she’s all right; no one’s approached her, no one’s messaged her. Although, she hasn’t left the house since I walked her to her door. Not two nights ago, not last night and she called out from work again this morning.
I know she’s in there. I’ve been watching every inch of that place.
“Mr. Black.” A man’s deep voice disrupts me from my thoughts. Sitting at the lone desk in the back room of the shop, I can see him through the open door. He’s standing in the front of the butcher shop, peeking behind the counter, and trying to get a look into the kitchen.
“Officer Harold,” I answer him in a monotone and slip the phone into my pocket. I just got in and didn’t see his car in the lot. But I didn’t check for it either. I didn’t do anything except worry about leaving Chloe Rose alone in that house. She’s getting to me even worse than she did back in high school.
All I can do is think about her, and that’s a mistake. For both of us.
“What can I do for you?” I ask him as I walk out of the back and head straight toward him. As I cross my arms, I make a mental note of who all’s in here. Eddie’s behind the front counter and watching everything, although he’s pretending to go through the weekly invoices. I don’t know why he bothers putting up a front. Officer Harold is in Romano’s back pocket and Eddie knows that. As does everyone else who’s working in the back.
So that means Romano sent him, or this is a test.
Either way, I don’t care for it. Other than Eddie, I don’t think anyone else is here yet. Which could be bad news for Eddie if this goes south.
“Have you heard about the recent killing spree?” he asks me and gestures to one of the two small tables in this place. They’re circular with peeling, flaking vinyl on the top and thin metal legs that match the rickety chairs. They’re dated and not meant to keep people wanting to stay. Most of the people who come in here pick up their packages and leave. Those who decide they want to hang around often change their minds as quickly as they can sit their asses down in these spindly seats.
“Killings?” I question him like I haven’t thought much about it. The sound of the metal feet of the chair dragging across the floor makes Eddie cringe as he peeks up from scratching his pencil on the notepad. “I know Tamra Stetson was shot and killed, I heard about that the other day.”
“Tamra and before her, Barry Jones, a few days before him a girl named Amber Talbott was found dead.” Officer Harold doesn’t sit like I do. Instead, he remains standing. Fucking prick.