Total pages in book: 213
Estimated words: 201920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1010(@200wpm)___ 808(@250wpm)___ 673(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 201920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1010(@200wpm)___ 808(@250wpm)___ 673(@300wpm)
“What could I possibly tell them?” Her tone is as tired as she looks, and she doesn’t hide the pain that lingers beneath her words. “I don’t know anything.”
“They’re looking for someone to blame. I don’t want you to give them a reason to think that someone could be you.” I know they tossed her name around as a possible suspect. She has motive, and emotions are raw for her. They want the case closed, and she’s an easy target.
My throat feels tight although the words come out steady as I tell her, “If they come around, I need you to tell them you don’t know anything, and you don’t want to talk to them. That’s it.”
I hand her the mug I’ve prepared for her, my palm hot as I rotate it so she can grab it by the handle. “It doesn’t matter how they’ll push you for more or what they say. They want you to talk, and you’re not going to. All you’re going to tell them is that you don’t know anything, and you don’t have anything to say, right?” I ask her, and she nods obediently and with an understanding that supplants the sadness. The cops here are crooked and covering for whoever lines their pockets. Anyone can take the fall, and they’d be perfectly all right with that.
She takes the mug with both hands, letting her fingers brush against mine. The small bit of contact sends electric waves up my arms and shoulders, igniting every nerve ending and putting me on edge. So much so, that my body begs me to either step away or grab her wrist. But I do what I’ve always done. I resist. I let myself feel the discomfort of not having her but being so close that I could easily have her if I just gave in.
She’s closer now, taking a half step toward me, her head at my chest and her gaze on the floor as she blows across the top of the hot cup of tea.
“I understand,” she tells me, her lips close to the edge of the mug, but she doesn’t drink it yet.
I reach over, one hand on either side of her head, and brush back her hair. She stares up at me with a longing I remember so well. A longing I’ve dreamed of for so many nights. The air is pulled from my lungs as I stare into her eyes. “Drink your tea and go to bed, Chloe.” My words are rough, and it’s hard to swallow. The moment her baby blues close with her nod, I get the fuck out of there before I do anything stupid. Anything that would put her in even more danger.
CHLOE
I’ll never forget her screams.
The second I hear the front door open as Sebastian leaves, it’s all I can think about.
As I set down my tea on the kitchen table, not even Sebastian’s lingering heat and scent can provide an adequate distraction. No, the moment he brought up my mother, I knew the memories would come back and they wouldn’t leave.
Sebastian never stays for long. Never. No matter how much I wish he would.
Closing my eyes and gripping the edge of the chair, I take in a deep breath. I know I need to lock the door, but I’m desperately trying to calm and steady myself.
At war with the memories of that night my mother died are the thoughts of Sebastian having been in my house just now.
He was here for business. But whatever the reason, he doesn’t want me to say anything, and so I won’t. I don’t have anything to say to the cops regardless, but I am emotional, and I could see myself spewing all sorts of hate for the dead man whose murder could easily be pinned on me.
Whatever Sebastian is involved with, and whatever his intention is behind telling me to keep my mouth shut, I’m grateful for it.
This addition to my tea, however, I don’t know what to think about that. I don’t know what it is, and I don’t believe him when he said it’s something I could get at the drugstore. I may be attracted to him for some unknown reason, but I’m not fucking stupid. The thought resonates with me as I turn the locks on the front door.
It was the nightmares that led him to me the first time. Or my reaction to the nightmares really. The constant crying.
It was five years ago when I was in ninth grade and he was in tenth. I turn around as a chill flows up my arm, traveling to the back of my neck and causing every hair in its path to stand on end. I’d sag against the hard door if my body wasn’t frozen at the memories.
Her scream. Screams. The shrill sound still wakes me up at night, tears streaming down my face as I try to keep my heart from leaping out of my chest.