Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 277(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 277(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
EMMA
When the door to the safe room opens, Jacob is standing there with a grim, almost scary look on his face. Rusty backs up and starts whining, sensing his aura. He’s exuding dark energy.
“Is everything okay?” I say, rising from the bed where I’ve been sitting for two hours, chewing my fingernails, waiting, praying, and wondering.
“I handled it,” he says, then turns and walks away, leaving the door open.
I follow him up the stairs and out of the hidden basement, Rusty walking cautiously at my side. He marches into the kitchen and sits at the table, running a hand through his hair, staring off into space like he’s reliving whatever just happened.
I sit next to him, cautiously taking his hand. I think he’s going to push me away, but then he squeezes on, but he’s still not looking at me.
“What happened?” I whisper.
“There’s a Cartel man in Pilgrim’s Peak. He hired two Americans to kill us. One of the men was sick like Rafael, so I took him out.”
“Took him… You don’t mean the cops, do you?”
He turns to me, staring bleakly. “No, Emma, I don’t mean the goddamn cops. This is the man you want. This is all of me. I’m a killer.”
“Do you think I care?” I snap. “If he did what you said he did—”
“Oh, he did,” Jacob growls. “I know for a fact. He got away with it several times, too.”
“Jesus,” I whisper. “Then don’t look at me like you think I will judge you.”
“You’re a middle-class girl who lives a normal life, Emma,” he says darkly. “You’re not made to be with a killer like me.”
“You’re just saying that because you know we can’t be together. You know it would break Dad’s heart.”
“Then hate me for it,” he snarls, tightening his hold on my hand. “Tell me I’m too crazy for you. Tell me I’ve done too many dark things. Tell me I’m too complicated for your life. Give me a reason to…” he trails off, panting huskily. “Believe you don’t want this. Not as badly as I do.”
“I want it more,” I say, my voice getting louder, passion making my body thump like the wind hammered the cabin before. “That man deserved what you did. When I was a kid, I always wondered what your job was. But do you know what I never had to wonder about? If you were a good person. I knew you were—always.”
He stands up, pulls me to my feet, and leans down. Then I push my hand against his chest so hard I almost send him sprawling across the kitchen. I know it’s shock, not the physical impact. Behind him, in the window, I can see Dad walking in snowshoes over the top layer of snow, wearing a backpack. I know it’s Dad, just from his posture and his outline. Suddenly, my insides get tight, like my body is trying to reject what I did with his best friend.
Jacob turns, spots him, too, and then glances at me. He nods. I watch in real time as he forces his emotions down, turning just in time for Dad to push the door open. Dad stands sheepishly in the doorway.
“Uh, hey.”
He looks guilty, like he’s expecting me to freak out on him. From his point of view, that’s probably exactly what he thinks. However, the guilt in me is crushing way too much, making me feel like filth. Instead, I rush over to him, giving him a fierce hug.
“Dad, I’m so glad you’re okay.”
“Sorry, kiddo.” He rubs his hand up and down my back. “I know I shouldn’t have left like that. I didn’t know there was going to be a blizzard.”
“It came on fast,” Jacob says, his voice level. I wonder if Dad can tell how much he’s stifling.
“Aren’t you going to ask me why I left?” Dad says.
“You obviously don’t want to tell me. At least, that’s the impression I got from our phone call earlier.”
“I thought you were saving your real interrogation for when I returned.”
I look up at him. He’s got panic in his eyes. I’ve only ever seen him like this once before: when he told me he and Mom were getting a divorce. He swallows and takes my shoulders in his hands. “I’m going to tell you the truth soon, okay? I just… need time. Can you give me that? I’ll tell you when this is over and we’re safe.”
“Dad, you’re scaring me,” I whisper, and even that feels like I’m pushing it too far and have no right to say that. How can I tell him he’s scaring me and say it as if he should care after what I did last night?
“It’s nothing to be scared of. Nothing like that.”
Is it something to do with work? With the Cartel? Even during the divorce when I was a kid, Dad was always upfront with me. He always treated me with respect and honesty. If he had acted like this before the betrayal, I would’ve demanded to know. Now, I just nod.