Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 115706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
I stop and listen. Hold my breath.
Wind is whipping the green canopy of pines and leaves above my head. Insects are chirring. My pulse is pounding loudly. But that’s it. Other than those sounds, plus the ragged whoosh of my fitful breathing, I detect nothing. Either I’ve imagined danger lurking in the darkness, or whatever danger was actually here took off at the sound of my work boots moving toward it.
Either way, this is a good reminder for me to remain vigilant. Keep myself on high alert. Even if I imagined danger lurking tonight, there’s still evil out there. A monster of a man who’s hell-bent on taking my daughter from me and then almost certainly doing to her what he did to his poor daughter.
I take a deep, steadying breath and start marching toward the house, as one thought plays in my head on a running loop: God as my witness, I’ll do whatever it takes to protect my family from Ralph Beaumont or anyone else who tries to harm them.
Chapter 28
Aubrey
“Holy guacamole, Coobie,” I say, looking around Caleb’s sprawling living room.
“Gooby-gabby-momo,” Raine echoes in front of me, attempting to mimic my exclamation. Of course, Caleb and I guffaw at her attempt.
The three of us, sans Miranda—we parted ways with Caleb’s sister at LAX—have just stepped inside Caleb’s sprawling, modern beach house in Santa Monica, and it’s beyond anything my feeble mind could have conjured. As it turns out, Caleb lives his “real life” in LA as the wealthy rock superstar he is, not the wood-working, drum-banging, mountain man I’ve come to know and love in Montana. As I’m now seeing, he’s a man who prefers sleek lines and modern glass in his chosen living accommodations, rather than cozy, rustic wood, stone fireplaces, and exposed beams.
I should have predicted this. Caleb only inherited his grandpa’s cozy wooden lake house, whereas he bought this home, out of all the options available at his hefty budget. If I’d been thinking clearly, I would have expected Caleb to choose to live in luxury like this. The man loves spending money, after all. I found that out during our first shopping spree in Billings. And he’s had a lot of it for a very long time. For almost fifteen years now, Caleb’s been accumulating insane amounts of wealth while living a “single rockstar” lifestyle. One unfettered by typical adult responsibilities and the usual guard rails that keep the rest of us in check.
When Caleb told me about his house in LA during our flight today, I pictured him living in a cute little beachside bungalow, since he only described his place as being “right on the beach.” Caleb explained, “There’s a little staircase from my property down to the beach below, so, it’ll be easy to go back and forth all day long, just like we do back home at the lake.”
Yep. Caleb used the word home in relation to his lake house in Montana today on the plane. And don’t think I didn’t feel giddy about it, even though I knew his word choice might have been a simple slip of the tongue.
“Do you see the ocean, Shortcake?” Caleb asks Raine, gesturing to floor-to-ceiling windows on the opposite side of the expansive room. “We can swim in it, just like we do in the lake back home.”
There it is again! Home.
“Dat ocean?” Rainey asks with wide-eyed astonishment, even though Claudia and I—sometimes, with Claudia’s mother, before she got sick—used to take Raine to the ocean all the time in Seattle. Apparently, Raine doesn’t remember those beach days now; or if she does, the grey, tumultuous version of the sea she visited in Washington doesn’t bear enough of a resemblance to the glittering, sapphire-blue ocean in California to trigger her rapidly vanishing memories.
“Would you ladies like a tour?” Caleb asks, an adorable grin on his handsome face.
“Right after I take Little Miss Can-I-Have-a-Second-Juice-Box-in-the-Car to a potty.”
Caleb chuckles and points toward a hallway. “Right through there on the left.”
“Dadda do it?” Raine asks to my surprise. I’m always the one who deals with Raine’s potty breaks, not Caleb.
“You’ve got it, kiddo!” Caleb booms. “I’ll race you there!” He takes off running. Or, at least, he pretends to. And Raine toddles gleefully after him.
I’m now alone in Mr. Rockstar’s living room, surrounded by photos and memorabilia: the artifacts of Caleb’s superstar life away from Montana.
Slowly, I amble around the room perusing everything like there’s going to be a pop quiz later. It’s all deeply fascinating to me. Like seeing another version of Caleb on a different timeline. There are framed platinum records, album covers, and memorabilia; photos of Caleb with smiling people who seem to be other famous musicians, based on context clues. There’s a pair of framed drumsticks bearing a signature I can’t read. A signed guitar, too. Several framed magazine covers.