Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 81867 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81867 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
I dart up the stairs, throw on a pair of leggings, a bra and a loose T-shirt. I wrap my hair on top of my head and then make my way back down to the kitchen. It’s a quick stop at the coffee pot to get the java brewing and then I’m out the front door to grab the newspaper.
When Callum started college, he made a habit of reading a physical newspaper every morning. I asked him why all those years ago because it’s not like he focused on just the sports section. He read it front to back and told me, “Knowledge is power. No telling what I might do with my life one day, but a well-read man is an employable man.”
I thought it adorable that he was so serious about his future, even looking past the fact he might not end up in the hockey industry. Since moving in with him, I quickly noted that his habits have not changed. While he drinks coffee in the morning, he at least starts his paper. He never has time to finish it cover to cover on workdays, but he takes it with him to the arena to finish at lunch.
These last two weeks, we’ve settled into a routine where I start the coffee, grab his paper, and then I’ll make him breakfast. He’ll be out of the shower and dressed by the time the food is rolling off the skillet. Oddly, it’s the same routine I had when living under Joshua and Preston’s roof but wholly different. I was the Willards’ servant, paying the toll for the medical care provided to my dad and for my silence whenever Joshua abused me.
I do these things for Callum because I want to and because I love caring for him. It brings me joy to help him prepare for his day.
It’s lovely and warm out already, but the grass is cool and dewy on my bare feet as I forsake the sidewalk and head to the mailbox at the corner of his driveway. Callum lives in a newly constructed neighborhood on the outskirts of the city. There are already people working in their yards to beat the summer heat and others traversing the pristine sidewalks.
I wave hello to the couple next door that I met—Melinda and Cameron—as they sit on their front porch drinking coffee.
When I reach the mailbox with the newspaper receptacle underneath, I step one foot off the curb and lean around it to grab the daily news. My mind processes very quickly that something’s not right, and my hand jerks back before I fully understand what I’m seeing.
It’s the cream and orange fur matted with blood that tears a high-pitched scream out of my throat.
“Juniper?” Cameron calls out in concern and I glance over to see him and Melinda running my way.
My gaze goes back to the receptacle, stuffed full of what I can pretty much guess is a dead cat. Cameron reaches me first and when Melinda careens around her husband, she takes one look at the horror and lets out a piercing scream that hurts my ears.
I automatically reach out to her, looping my arm over her shoulders and taking one of her hands in mine.
“What the fuck is that?” Cameron exclaims.
Melinda lets out a sob and presses her face into her free hand.
“Go get Callum,” I say, feeling strangely calm as I comfort his wife, although I do twist my neck left and right to scan the area.
“I’ll take care of it,” he replies.
“No,” I say a little too sharply. “Don’t touch it. And go get Callum. He’s in the shower so just walk into the house and yell for him. He needs to see this.”
Cameron frowns as I continue to look around, his tone concerned. “What’s going on?”
“Please just go get Callum.” I let go of Melinda’s hand to reach into the side pocket of my leggings and pull out my phone. “Someone put that there for me deliberately and I’m calling the police.”
“Jesus Christ,” Cameron breathes out but then he takes off toward our front door.
There’s no one else around except a couple a block down walking away from us. I extricate myself from Melinda who is now gripping my arm. I give her an encouraging smile as I dial 911.
I’m on the phone with a dispatcher when Callum comes running out of the house in just a pair of workout shorts. His hair is dry so I’m assuming he hadn’t gotten in the shower yet.
Because he knows Joshua is the reason behind whatever is wrong, he looks around wildly, perhaps like I did, to see if he’s close by, smirking over his handiwork.
Callum rounds the mailbox, sees the horror and levels curse after curse to no one in particular. I ignore it, giving the dispatcher the address and asking for a police officer to come. At first, they’re hesitant but I drop either an untruth or a soon-to-be truth by saying, “I have a stalker and he left a mutilated cat in my newspaper box. I want this investigated.”