Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
But I can wait until this afternoon when she gets home and talk to her then. That’s only another eight and a half hours from now. Pfft, I can do that long standing like a statue, and nearly did one time.
This’ll be easy. I can even work to stay distracted. I’ll just wait for her to get home.
An hour later . . .
If I were a smart man, I’d run this idea by Kayla first, especially since she’s the one who got me into this mess by calling me a coward. But I don’t want her to tell me I’m an idiot. I already know that. So, I don’t call her, or anyone else, to discuss my new plan.
I pull into The Ivy Care Center parking lot. From the outside, it looks well-maintained and welcoming, with flowers blooming in pots on either side of the front door and a fresh coat of paint on the bricks. It’s a pleasant façade for a place that’s really not much more than a comfortable place to die.
I grab the gas station bag from the seat beside me and then the box of treats I picked up too. I might not know how to ‘people’ as myself, but I’ve got practice faking the charm that comes naturally to most others. And using food as a way in has always served me well.
I press the doorbell by the front door. “Hello. Welcome to The Ivy. Can I help you?” a disembodied voice says.
Leaning toward the camera, I slap a charismatic smile on my face and say, “I’m here to see Janey Williams. And I brought treats for her friends.”
“Is she expecting you?”
Huh, better security than some Forbes 100 corporations. I’m impressed.
I let my smile fall, looking conspiratorial at the inhuman camera like it’s an old friend. Quietly, I confide, “It’s a surprise. I’m hoping to sweep her away for lunch, but just in case she’s too busy, I brought her favorite strawberry apricot Red Bull, some trail mix, with the requisite extra bag of M&Ms to make it actually worth it.”
The laughter on the other side tells me everything I need to know. I’m in.
The door buzzes. “Come on in.”
Inside, a smiling woman sits behind a large desk that’s covered with stacks and stacks of paper—my worst nightmare, non-digital records. “You know the way to our Janey’s heart, don’t you?” she says by way of greeting.
“I’d like to think so,” I reply as I glance down at her name tag. “Hopefully, yours too, Jackie. I brought these for everyone else.” I hold out the box filled with bagels, donuts, and mini muffins.
“Ooh! Gimme that!” She squeals happily as she takes it from my hand. “I’ll put it in the break room and tell Janey she’s got a visitor, but I won’t tell her who . . .?” She trails off, expectantly prompting me for my name.
“Cole Harrington. Janey and I are friends,” I say with a half-smile, making it clear that we’re considerably more.
“Well, you can be my friend too, Cole, if you keep bringing treats like this. Hang tight, it might be a while,” Jackie says, pointing to a chair. Getting up, she disappears down a hallway, presumably to put the snacks in the break room for everyone.
It’s been about thirty minutes, during which time five different staff members have done drive-bys to scope me out or tell me thank you for the bagels. But the man approaching now doesn’t seem like he works here.
“I hear you’d like to see our Janey,” he says, sounding fatherly. He’s tall, thin, with a full head of thick, white hair. His navy sweater hangs off his shoulders, his khaki slacks are baggy and piled up at the ankle, and he’s shuffling around in suede house shoes.
But I know that this man’s opinion carries weight where it matters. I stand, holding out a hand respectfully. “Yes sir. Cole Harrington.”
He shakes my hand more firmly than I would’ve expected. “Ace Culderon. Or at least that’s what they called me back in the service.”
“It’s a good name, Mr. Culderon.” I can play the charming date to a pseudo-father figure if it’s necessary to get to Janey. I’ve done worse for less, and at this point, I’d do just about anything to get in front of her and explain myself.
“Call me Ace,” he offers. “You play?” He points a gnarled finger at a side table with a marble chess board.
“A bit,” I answer with a shrug. I learned as a kid from Grandpa Chuck and have played a bit over the years, but not enough to be good.
“Me too. Sit down,” Ace instructs. I make sure he moves to the chair and sits down okay and then settle myself across from him. “You start.”
He’s given me the advantage of playing white, which already tells me that he expects to win easily against me. Otherwise, he would’ve taken the advantage for himself. We play quietly for a few turns, feeling each other out.