Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 107803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
I take another drink, savoring it, when I hear Melody's voice behind me. "Well, I guess some things never change."
I turn around, eyes widening as I look at her. Her usual blonde hair is now bright platinum, stark red and black streaks running through it.
"Do you like?" she asks, fluffing up her hair. "Switching up on you ordinary bitches."
I laugh, shaking my head. "It's very you."
"Right? I thought so, too." She orders a coffee and plops down across from me, sipping on it before she launches into her usual rambling, going on and on about what she's done already this summer (way too much) and how things with Paul are (better than she hoped but man, he needs to get a job), before she flips the script right back to me. "So how's engaged life?"
"Fine," I say, shrugging.
"Fine," she echoes. "That's it? Fine?"
I shrug. "Yeah, fine."
She rolls her eyes at my response, launching into a dozen questions: When's the wedding? Where? Do you have a dress? Who's all invited? Can I see the ring again? I humor her, although I haven't given much of it any thought.
"So what are you going to do next year?" she asks. "You know, since your GPA wasn't high enough to keep your scholarship."
I think I preferred wedding talk to this. I let out a sigh, shrugging. I've tried not to think about it, but it's been lingering there, in the back of my mind. I've got a tuition bill coming that I could never pay. I know Naz says what's his is mine, but how can I ask for thousands to pay for my classes? "I'll figure it out."
"You better," she says. "We totally need to take this class together—Ethics & Society."
"Hell no," I say. "Fuck no. Shit no. No more philosophy classes."
She laughs. "Come on, it'll be easy."
I ball up a napkin and throw it at her. "Negative."
She shrugs, finishing off her coffee. "Your loss."
She can't stay long, having to meet her parents for lunch across town. I bid her goodbye, making plans to meet here again next week, and she starts to walk away but pauses after a few steps. "Oh, I almost forgot! This came for you the other day… it was sent to the dorm room."
She tosses an envelope down on the table. I glance at it, seeing no return address, but the handwriting strikes me as familiar… my mother's.
I finish off my drink and throw it away before heading for the door. I tear open the envelope, yanking out the single sheet of notebook paper, and unfold it. It was scribbled hastily, no sweet greeting or small talk, straight to the point.
Sorry if I've worried you. I can be reached at the number below. Call me as soon as you can. I love you.
I stare at the number, the area code 201 striking me.
She's in New Jersey?
I reread the words a few times, going over the numbers in my mind. I push my confusion aside, grateful to have something. I don't have any answers, but at least she's okay. She's out there, and I have a way to reach her.
I fold the letter up and stick it back in the envelope, shoving it in my pocket. I make the trip back to Brooklyn and am approaching the front door of the house when someone speaks. "Karissa Reed?"
I stall and turn around, eyes widening at the sound of my name on this stranger's lips. He's nobody I've ever seen before, an older man with graying hair, wearing an ill-fitting blue suit. Another younger man lingers on the sidewalk, trying to act casual, his hands on his hips, pushing his coat out of the way and exposing a shiny gold badge clipped to his belt.
Police.
"Uh, yes," I say hesitantly, staring at the badge for a moment before turning to the one who addressed me. "Can I help you?"
"We're hoping so," he says. "We wanted to ask you a few questions."
"About?"
"About Daniel Santino."
My brow furrows. Professor Santino? "What about him?"
"Would you mind coming down to the station with us?" he asks, smiling tersely. It doesn't escape my notice that he avoids answering my question. "It'll only take a few minutes."
I glance between the two men and the car parked near them—clearly an unmarked police cruiser. "I don't know."
The second officer struts toward me, his expression hard. I watch enough mindless television to know the good cop/bad cop act, and this one obviously is the latter. "You can come with us now voluntarily or we can pick you up later and take you downtown, whether you like it or not."
Frowning, I oblige, climbing into the backseat when the older officer opens the door for me. He's kinder, trying to be friendly and chatting as he drives toward the police station. Detective Jameson with the Homicide Unit.
His partner, Detective Andrews, is clearly naturally an asshole. He sits in the passenger seat, silent, scowling.
When we arrive, I'm taken to a small drab room with nothing but a table and some chairs, the walls slate gray, a sign on the door that says 'Interrogation'. I nervously sit down in a chair with the men across from me. They offer me something to drink, but I'm too anxious to accept it.
Their questions seem simple on the surface: When's the last time you spoke to Daniel Santino? What did you talk about? Why were you there? They ask me again and again, the same tedious questions in a loop just worded a little differently each time, as if they expect to trip me up and get another response eventually.
I was the last person seen with him.
His estimated time of death coincided with my visit.
"Wait, you don't think… I mean, you seriously don't think I had something to do with this, right?"
Both men just stare at me.
"He was alive when I left him," I say, in utter shock that they're insinuating I could be involved. "I would never hurt someone, much less kill them. I wouldn't... I couldn't. Check the security cameras. You'll see!"