Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 69696 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69696 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
My mind spun through a thousand thoughts as we were riding back home.
What I was going to do when I got home.
Where I would move to.
It would have to be somewhere affordable. Somewhere that I could put a down payment on and afford on my limited income until I was able to get a job.
I had just enough money in my savings to put this month and last month’s rent on a decent apartment.
Then there was moving itself. I had to go get some moving boxes.
I also had to grow a pair of balls and use my dad’s truck.
That was the only one logically that would work for transporting boxes.
It was only as we were pulling over for gas that the question finally popped into my mind.
I debated whether to ask him for all of two seconds before I shrugged and went for it.
“How many people have you seen die?” I asked softly, not moving off the back of his bike as he unscrewed his gas cap.
He froze, his eyes going distant for a few seconds before he focused back on his task.
“More than I can count,” he admitted. “Why?”
I thought about why I’d asked him the question in the first place, then decided I wasn’t going to scare him off with my morbid thoughts.
“I feel like…” I swallowed hard, pulling his helmet off of my head. “I feel like his death was too easy.”
He straightened, his shoulders going back as he processed my words.
I shook my head immediately.
“I didn’t mean that,” I blurted.
He tilted his head sideways as he said, “It was too easy.”
My shoulders slumped.
“He ruined my life,” my voice rasped out of my throat. “He got off easy. His life was forfeit. So what? I have to live the rest of my life without my dad. He can’t walk me down the aisle when I get married. He can’t go to my graduation. He can’t hold my first child. Hell, my child will only have one set of grandparents!”
He didn’t say anything.
I rubbed my face with my one free hand that wasn’t holding the helmet and started to pace next to his bike.
“The man who killed my mom got four years in prison, with the possibility of parole at two. And a ten-thousand-dollar fine,” I found myself saying. “He can possibly be out next month.”
I lightly tapped the tire of the motorcycle with the toe of my bright yellow Keds.
“He lives in Kilgore, did you know?” I continued, not expecting an answer. “He has a wife and three kids.” I started pacing again. “I actually feel sorry for him. He killed my mother and I feel sorry for him.”
Derek hung the gas pump nozzle back up, and I took that as my cue to get my ass back on the bike.
I did so, situating my helmet on my head as he mounted the bike in front of me.
He didn’t say a word until we were almost all the way back in Kilgore.
“Are you hungry yet?” he asked.
I wasn’t sure I’d ever be hungry again.
“No,” I said loudly enough so that he could hear it over his bike. “Take me home.”
And that was exactly what he did.
When I walked into my house later, I looked at it with new eyes.
The house wasn’t mine anymore.
I needed to pack up all of the stuff, but like their vehicles, I just couldn’t talk myself into touching their things.
Touching their things felt wrong on so many levels.
But it had to be done.
I’d been beating around the bush for too long.
Getting it done was what needed to happen, and it was time.
Chapter 6
Roses are red, I’m going to bed.
-T-shirt
Derek
“I think this is something that we should do for her,” I found myself saying. “I read up on the pension that she would’ve gotten had she been eighteen. I think that we need to talk to the board and see if we can get them to give it to her anyway. She’s a year over being eighteen now. And, technically, at the time of her father’s death, she was eighteen still.”
I’d read up on the bylaws of the pension disbursement to children of deceased officers, and if the child was under the age of eighteen and still going to school, they could receive seventy-five percent of the father’s pension until they turned eighteen. Then, if they continued to go to school for continuing education, they could continue to receive the benefits up until the age of twenty-five.
“She missed the mark and they’re not even looking at her for benefits,” I continued.
My dad looked pissed.
“Let me handle that,” he said as he looked at the paperwork I’d handed him. “In the meantime, the money that we raised for her for college, we can give that to her.”
Originally that money had been promised as a college fund for Avery. But it seemed like it would help her out more right now than it would in a half a year.