Total pages in book: 211
Estimated words: 201554 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1008(@200wpm)___ 806(@250wpm)___ 672(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 201554 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1008(@200wpm)___ 806(@250wpm)___ 672(@300wpm)
He doesn’t blink. “Why would my father have that document?”
“Then you know about the program?” I ask.
“Yes. I know about the program. It was her best hope. It was what we were hoping for, but she killed herself before she got in.”
Dread fills me for all I must tell him. “Yes, well when I heard your father had documents related to the trial, I thought that meant that your mother mattered to him as well. That she was more to him than we realized.”
“But?”
“My mother found proof of a payment to someone who worked at the facility. She thought he paid extra to get her into the program. But then she found a note from the man the check was written to that read: As requested, decline issued.”
He goes stiff, his jaw so hard I think it might shatter. “Are you saying that my father paid off someone at the treatment facility to ensure my mother didn’t make it into that trial?”
“Yes. Later my mother said she misunderstood the note. That she found another and it explained that money wasn’t a factor in acceptance into the study. It was first come, first serve. But today. Today she made it seem like—”
“He paid to keep her out of the trial,” he repeats. “And she knew she’d been rejected the day she killed herself.”
“Yes,” I whisper. “Yes, I think so. Eric—”
He shoves his fingers through his hair, his head dipping low, his emotions cutting, jagging, and tunneling through the room. He’s trembling and I’m not even sure it’s from the numbers in his head. It’s pure, white-hot fury.
Chapter ninety-five
Harper
Eric squeezes his eyes shut, but he doesn’t immediately move. He’s on top of me, his big body steel that seems to hum with his emotions. My hands close around his arms. “I hate them, too. I hate them and—”
He shifts then, his body suddenly lifting from mine, and I am ice, brittle to the bone with his withdrawal, terrified I’ve made the wrong decision by telling him about his mother. It’s truly terrible timing, but when would be the right time for something like this? The minute he’s standing, I’m sitting, holding myself up on my hands. Watching as he turns away, his shoulders bunching, his hands going to his waist, and I watch his body shift with the inhalation of a breath he holds, tension radiating off of him. Aware that the savant in him reacts to emotions, I’m afraid that anything I say or do might trigger a reaction he won’t have otherwise.
Slowly, I scoot to the edge of the bed where I can be ready to do whatever he needs me to do. Ready to stop him from leaving any way I can manage. It won’t be easy, but I have to win. There’s no other option. He steps forward and I stand up. He takes two steps and I take one, only to have him stop dead in his tracks. I stop just as abruptly, holding my breath, not sure what to expect. A full attack, as he described after his mother passed? Anger? Pain? A charge toward the door to leave? I just don’t know. I have no idea what to expect.
Will he hate me for not telling him sooner?
Will he hate me for staying with the Kingstons after I found out? For justifying what I learned as my mother talked craziness?
Will he hate me?
That’s the bottom line.
Have I lost him? God, I can’t lose him. I love him. I love him so much that it hurts to think about never touching him or kissing him again. It hurts to think about losing the chance to find out all we can be. I don’t even know how he likes to spend the upcoming holidays he once spent with his mother, now that he’s here in this life he created for himself. And as silly as it might seem, right now, that cuts terribly. I want to know everything about this man. I want to scream this at him. I want to kiss him. I want to rip the rest of his clothes off and make him stay in bed with me until the rest of the world forces us to leave. And yet, I do none of these things because they don’t feel right.
Waiting feels right. Giving him space to decide what comes next feels right.
Several beats pass and we just stand there, neither of us speaking, but I can feel his awareness of me just behind him. Just as I’m intensely aware of him, so very aware of him. I’ve been aware of him on some deep, soul-searching level since the day I met him. I’m a part of this man. He’s a part of me and he has to know that. He has to see that. I sway toward him and my fingers ball by my sides. I flash back to the day my mother told me what she’d found years ago now. I think of the moment I picked up the phone to try to track down Eric and then set the phone back down. And I did so for one reason: I didn’t have the facts. Technically, I didn’t this time either, but he had the right to know.