Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 108165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
I study the unease in her slumped posture and tightly folded fingers, knuckles turning white. “What did you find?”
Eloise’s lips twist. It’s a palpable hesitancy. “A letter.”
“A suicide note?”
She shakes her head. “A letter from his girlfriend.”
“Molly?”
“Yes.”
Reaching for the fan, I pull the chain to move some air. “He seemed to adore her. I bet she’s heartbroken. I can only imagine what it must feel like to lose your boyfriend so tragically. She had trouble keeping it together at the funeral.”
“That might have been an act.”
I glance over my shoulder while opening the blinds. “You think she was disingenuous with her grief?”
“You should come read the letter. Or I can go get it.”
After one more glance around the lifeless room, I nod. “Lead the way.”
Eloise shuffles her Crocs toward her house, occasionally stopping to bend down and pull a weed or two between the uneven bricks along the narrow path.
The drifting piano notes resume.
“Does Jack live in your garage or just use it for storage?”
“He lives there. I couldn’t refuse his offer to rent it. He sleeps on a cot, although, now, he might sleep on the old sofa I gave him. There’s a sink. He added a toilet. And I believe he uses the hose by the floor drain to bathe. I noticed he got a microwave. Jack’s a rather … interesting guy.”
I hum. “I got that vibe too. But what do you mean by interesting?”
“He’s secretive. For the most part, he keeps to himself. I know very little about him. Sometimes, he’s gone for days at a time. And then there are long stretches where he plays that piano or goes for an hour-long jog. When he’s here, he seems to do the same thing at the same time every day. I used to wonder if he was a serial killer because he’s good-looking and eccentric.” She grips the handrail to climb the rotting wood steps to her porch overflowing with potted flowers and two red-painted chairs. A string of windchimes hangs below the guttering, singing in the light breeze.
“Have you ruled out that possibility?”
“No.” She chuckles, opening the screen door that droops on its hinges.
“But it’s nice having him here like a bodyguard. I mean … if he’s not interested in killing me, maybe he’ll protect me. And he’s not bad company. Sometimes, he has dinner with me. And he’s willing to help me out with certain chores.”
My lungs greedily inhale the heavenly cool air laced with a vanilla scent when we enter her house.
Eloise pours two glasses of lemonade and slides one to me. “Let me grab that letter from the drawer of my secretary.”
The AC is good, but this lemonade is better. Steven used to tell me how everything Eloise made was delicious. Her homemade pies. Jams. Chicken soup. And freshly squeezed lemonade. Steven said she was like a bonus grandma.
“I’m not showing you this to upset you. But if you’re still wondering why he did it, this might help shed some light on everything.”
I stare at the folded sheet of paper before taking it. As I unfold it, the first thing that catches my attention is the doodles in the margins.
Broken hearts.
Skulls.
Headstones.
A figure hanging from a tree branch.
The letters R.I.P.
They are Steven’s drawings. When he was younger, he doodled on everything, including walls and furniture. It infuriated my brother.
Dear Steven,
Do you believe in an afterlife? I do. I think when we die, we quickly come back as a new person—a do-over. Fearing death is weird. Don’t you think? It’s the fear of the unknown. But isn’t every day an unknown? We should no more fear death than waking up each day, walking out of our house, and getting in a car.
I’m sorry about Colin. It was not planned. He was drunk, and I was angry at the world for doing this to you. I needed someone to take away my pain, but I couldn’t ask you.
I know football was your life. If I lost my dad and then lost my ability to do the one thing I loved more than anything else, I don’t think I would survive. I’d want a do-over. Lately, I’ve seen it in your mom’s eyes. She’s struggling to keep it together. I bet she misses your dad. It has to feel nearly impossible to wake up each morning. But she does it for you. And now she has to watch you go through rehab, knowing your dreams have been shattered.
Will there be enough money to pay the bills?
I wonder how often she must think of just checking out.
It has to be unbearable for her.
Just know that despite what happened with Colin, I love you. And I will always love you. But it’s hard on me, too. It’s hard to watch you suffer. Watching everyone at school look at you with so much pity is hard. It’s never going to end. You will always be that kid who was supposed to be great, but one bad hit to your leg stole your future. In some ways, I bet it feels like it’s stolen your whole life.