Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 70584 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70584 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
My stomach drops.
Nausea steals my thirst, so I abandon my cup of ice by the sink.
With shaky hands, I plug the phone in, leaving it exactly where I found it, and return to my room. And for the rest of the night, I wrack my brain in an attempt to figure out who “KT” is or why my father would have someone’s name stored in his phone as simply their initials or why they’d be talking about ending my mother’s suffering.
For hours, my mind wanders down the darkest alleys and the most unspeakable paths.
What if the accusations against him are true? What if he did kill his sister? What if he did cause Mrs. Monreaux’s death? What if the man who raised me and sacrificed for me and taught me everything I believe to be true … is nothing more than a self-serving liar?
By morning, the sunrise paints my curtains shades of orange and pink. I still haven’t slept—and I’m not going to sleep. I can’t rest until I know what’s going on.
I slip into a pair of jean shorts from the floor and dig a t-shirt from my dresser. After freshening up, I leave a note by the stove and head to the hospital—alone—before my father wakes.
I can’t tell Mama what I saw because I’ve yet to make sense of it.
But I can’t take another minute of being under the same roof as my father…not until I get some answers.
Chapter Eleven
August
* * *
“Hey, hey. What brings you in?” Adriana sidles up to me at the cell store the instant I walk in the door Sunday afternoon.
My head throbs from last night’s concert, and I haven’t slept a fucking ounce after partying all night on the tour bus just to make Soren feel like I give a shit about our “relationship.” But I’m here on a mission. Unfortunately, a quick perusal of my surroundings tells me Sheridan isn’t working today.
“Need a new charger,” I say, handing her the broken one I brought in. Or rather the one I destroyed this morning with the help of a pair of pliers.
“Oh.” She examines the frayed wires. “How’d this happen?”
“Does it matter?”
“Um, I mean. Yeah. Sort of. I can warranty-it-out for you if it’s from the phone you just bought the other week?”
“It’s not.” I’m in an honest mood today.
“Okay. Do you want to go with a six foot cord or ten?” She leads me to a wall covered in an endless assortment of phone chargers. “Sometimes ten can be a little much. Six is standard.”
“Whatever.”
She clears her throat and plucks one off the hook. “I can check you out over there.”
I follow her to the register, scanning the room once more in vain.
“Sheridan working today?” I ask.
Biting her lip, she winces. “No. Her mom’s in the hospital.”
Fuck.
No wonder she wasn’t putting up with my shit last night.
“Sorry to hear that.” I hand her my card. “Anything I can do?”
I don’t know what I could possibly do in this situation, but it feels like the right thing to say in this moment. Plus, it wouldn’t be the worst thing if Adriana relayed my sympathy to her friend.
She slides me a pen and the receipt to sign. “Um, I don’t think so?”
Twirling a dark strand of hair between her fingers, she tucks it behind one ear.
“Can I say something?” she asks.
I lift a brow, sliding the receipt across the counter. “What?”
“It’s probably not my place, but Sheridan … she’s not interested.”
“Well aware.” I smirk. “And you’re right; it’s not your place.”
Her eyes widen and her cheeks tinge with cherry-pink heat. “I just mean … I don’t want you to get your hopes up with her or anything. She’s not really the dating type.”
“Neither am I.”
“And she’s really into the clean cut guys,” Adriana adds, eyes trained on mine as if she’s trying not to stare at my tattoos, piercings, or messy fuck-if-I-care hair. “I have this friend,” she continues. “You’re so her type.”
Dragging in a deep breath, I check the parking lot out of boredom.
“I’m having this party on Friday. My parents are going to be out of town and my sister said she’d buy us a couple of kegs. Just a few people. Maybe, like, ten or fifteen at most. But you should come. If you want, I mean …”
“Maybe.”
Her eyes light, as if I’ve just handed her a giant Publisher’s Clearinghouse check. “Really?”
“Yeah, sure. We’ll see.”
Grabbing a slip of paper, she scribbles her number in blue ink and hands it over. “Cool. Just text me so I have your number, and I’ll send you the details on Friday.”
I don’t commit to anything, ever. It’s against policy. But I’m happy to keep my options open, especially if there’s a chance Sheridan will make an appearance.
Chapter Twelve
Sheridan
* * *
“Hey, sweets. How’s it going? How’s your mom?” Adriana greets me Thursday afternoon at the cell store with a wilted hug and pouty face.