Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
It doesn’t make any sense. “He gave up a nine-figure deal for a house?”
“No.” But it’s Liv who answers this time. “Krisjen threatened to give us the house as an alternative. We could find a million things to do with it that would drive down property values in their neighborhood.”
The wheels in my head turn. Yes, we could. He would not want us owning property in St. Carmen.
“And Jerome Watson gets her,” Liv adds.
I gaze at the papers in my hand, crumpling the edges in my fist. “She doesn’t need to sell herself to him,” Clay says. “Her parents hid some of their assets in her name. She’s been liquidating. She’d never sell herself to him for money.”
I swallow the lump in my throat.
“But she’d do anything for you,” Trace murmurs to me.
It’s not meant as an accusation, but I feel the slice all the same.
I’ve wanted roads for these people my whole life. I’ve begged for it, but we’re not taking it like this. She doesn’t get to swoop in and save us. I save us.
I need to see her.
In minutes my family is back to their party, and I’m crossing the tracks again. The gate to her house is open, but I don’t question why. Speeding down her driveway, I spot a large truck in front of the house, Bayside Moving written on the side.
Clay wasn’t lying. She gave away the house.
The windows of the home are dark, and the truck is sealed shut for the night, but the ramp is down. They’re still loading furniture. There’s time to stop this.
I bang on the door over and over again. Come on.
There’s no answer. Where is she?
Where are the kids?
I knock again, but there’s no answer. No one’s here.
I take out my phone and dial one of the many numbers I vowed never to contact again.
“Hello?” Cara Conroy answers.
I walk back to my truck. “Are you in town?”
She hesitates, and she may have forgotten my number, but she knows my voice. “I’m not far. Why?”
“Two Locks,” I tell her. “One hour.”
33
Krisjen
Why can’t I get it right? It’s wrong every time.
And I’ve tried following the recipe several times. Dipping my finger in again, I bring it to my mouth, sucking off the filling. It’s not even close to Mariette’s key lime pie. What the hell is she putting in it?
I pick up the note card she wrote out for me and study it. She gave me a bogus recipe. I know it. I’d keep a secret like that to myself, too.
I add more lime juice and stir.
“Are you listening to me?” Clay asks. “You can’t go through with this.”
She sits at the kitchen island of her mom’s new beach house, watching me cook. I’ve been staying here with Mars and Paisleigh for two days while I search for a more modest place. Not that we had to leave our house, but it was never a home. Not like that little cottage Trace showed us that night. I want them to live somewhere like that.
I swipe the filling with my finger, tasting it again. The nerves in my jaw joints perk up, and I shrug. It’s got more punch at least. I pour in more juice.
“Krisjen!”
I glance up and start stirring again. “He doesn’t love me,” I tell her.
I said it to him several times. He didn’t tell me once.
“Is that what you think?” she snaps. “How could he not love you?”
“You don’t know everything, Clay.” I pour the filling into a pie shell. “I’m not what he needs. I owe him.”
“Krisjen—”
But my phone rings, and I hurriedly drop the bowl back to the counter, thankful for the interruption.
“Hello?” I answer quickly.
“Hey, it’s me,” Bateman says. “The kids never showed up at your grandparents’.”
“What?”
I step away from the pie, checking the clock on the wall. It’s almost seven. They got out of school four hours ago. Mars texted me that they were there.
“Your grandma didn’t think anything of it,” he goes on. “With your parents and such, she figured wires got crossed, but I found Paisleigh’s homework in my car and called to see if I could drop it off. It’s due Monday. That’s when we realized we didn’t know where the kids were.”
I slip my feet into my flip-flops and grab my keys. “Have you called my parents?”
“Both of them,” he replies. “Your dad’s not answering, and your mom said … that they’re in the Bay.”
“What?” I blurt out, feeling Clay’s eyes on me. “Why would—”
“I don’t know,” he says, sounding breathless. “Do you want me to call someone?”
I hook my purse over my head and mouth to Clay, “Gotta go.”
I push through the screen door, jogging down the porch steps. “Not yet,” I tell him. “Keep your phone on you just in case.”
“Got it. Let me know when you have them.”