Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 55912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 280(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 280(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
But we’re on the other side of the city, far away from the reek of the docks and the general neglect, the decay. There’s something else, too, that makes absolutely no sense. I trust Jamie King on a deep level, even if I shouldn’t.
Perhaps I’ll find a middle ground. Pulling on my sneakers, I walk across the street. It’s quieted down now, the kids inside. Music plays from a house at the end of the road, but not loudly, not the ever-present thud-thud-thud that came from our previous neighbor in our old home.
I’m halfway across the street to Joan’s house when I realize I have zero clue what I’m doing. I’ve only known Joan for a year since she moved into the neighborhood. She’s a friendly, loving woman in her later years, but that doesn’t mean I should get her involved in a potential crime.
“Lena?” she calls, opening her door, wearing a purple, flower-print apron, her black hair up in curlers. “Just on time. I’ve baked a pie.”
“I…” I wanted to ask if I could hide out in your kitchen to see if Jamie King is here to kill or help me. Yeah, like I can say that. “I’d love some pie, Joan.”
She waves me inside, talking about her son in the Navy. I do my best to listen about his latest escapades in Malta, but mostly, I’m listening out for the screech of tires outside or trying not to think about what these people could be doing to Mom. I always did my best to protect her.
“When’s Simone back, Lena?” Joan asks, slicing me a piece of pie.
I take the plate and then stand at the counter. “Uh… soon.”
She sits at the table without a slice of her own. “Wouldn’t you like to sit down?”
“No,” I say. “Is that okay?”
She spreads her hands. “You’ve got young knees. That’s it.”
I stand at her kitchen window, eating pie from a plate. Joan sits at the small table, looking up at me with a frown. “Something eating you up, dear?”
I swallow a mouthful of pie, delicious, the best pie I’ve ever had. It is every time. “Oh, no, you know…”
That is a nothing statement if ever there was one. I keep eating the pie, making mmm noises that have Joan smiling, even if I can tell she’s still suspicious. When I finish the pie, I put it in the sink, then run the faucet.
“Really, dear, you don’t have to—”
“Please, and I’ll get these for you too.” Joan handwashes all her dishes, so there’s a stack ready for me to attack. It gives me an excuse to stand here. Luckily, offering to wash her dishes is the least suspicious thing I’ve done since walking in here. “How have you been, anyway?”
“The sink is almost full, dear.”
I look down. She’s right, and I haven’t put any dish soap in. “Ah, sorry.” I pull the plug, my hand burning in hot water, and then refill it properly. “Sorry about the water.”
“I have my job at the kiosk, dear. I’m not destitute yet, and dear Martin left me a sizable sum.” Her intense pride in her job selling ice cream and candy at the park is one of the reasons I like her so much. “Use all the hot water you need. More importantly, have you found a nice man yet? Or woman?”
I roll my eyes. “You still think the jury’s out on that one then, Joan?”
The older lady giggles like a schoolgirl, drumming her fingernails on the table. She loses six decades when she laughs like that. “I haven’t seen evidence either way, so for me, yes. Aren’t you interested in anyone?”
“I know, I know. I’m twenty-one. I’m almost too old.”
“Don’t get sarcastic with me, young lady,” she laughs. “There’s a lot you could offer a man.”
Maybe there is, but I don’t want just any man. Wrongly, I want the person driving the car currently approaching my house. It’s the same sleek black vehicle he always drove, with a long hood and gleaming silver spokes.
He steps from the car, not dressed as sharply as usual. He has on baggy sweatpants and a black T, his arms bulging, his fit body moving sleekly toward the house. He goes at a light jog and then leans against the door, getting ready to drive his shoulder into it. He’s going to break in.
Just before his shoulder hits, he reaches for the back of his pants. He doesn’t lift his T-shirt, and the fabric’s color makes any outline difficult to see. What else would he have in there except a gun or a bouquet of flowers?
He shoves the door open, almost like the material is paper, and then runs into the house in broad daylight. Whatever’s happening is so extreme that Jamie King, a possible crime lord or a hitman, is willing to break into my home and kill me in broad goddamn daylight.