Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 124180 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 621(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124180 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 621(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
It was ridiculous how much Miles missed Charity after she left for her lunch with Lia McGregor. He pottered around the house, took Stormy for a walk, and texted his mother and sister. He had also contacted both Hugh and Bryan and badgered them into giving him updates on a couple of contract negotiations he had been working on before getting ill.
But that barely ate into his time without Charity. The house smelled like her. He loved that he could go into any room and find a lingering trace of her subtle perfume.
These last two days had been amazing. And he was already dreading the day he would have to say goodbye to her permanently.
He was sitting in the solarium, his laptop open on the coffee table in front of him and impulsively called up his rarely used Facebook account. He had four friends, his family and Bryan, and a few hundred friend requests. The only pictures of himself on the page were ones added by Hugh and Vicki. Photos he hadn’t even known existed. He glared at one taken of him at that very house, headphones over his ears, while he stood on the dock, hands in his trouser pockets, staring sullenly out at the lake.
He looked like a miserable tosser.
In fact, he looked like a moody bastard in most of their vacation photos. His expressions ranged from mildly exasperated, to bored, to fully pissed off.
Jesus. He was amazed they continued trying to include him in anything. He would have written himself off as a lost cause years ago if the positions had been reversed.
But he wasn’t on Facebook to contemplate his failings as an older brother. He typed the name Charity Cole into the search bar, but all it yielded was a handful of Charity Coles who were decidedly not his Charity.
He tried Blane Cole next. No one who seemed to be the douchebag he was searching for. Then Blaine Cole…more smiling faces. But he didn’t think any of them were the bastard.
He rubbed his chin, absently noting the need for a shave, before minimizing Facebook and opening a Google search page.
He could call his attorney and ask who had recommended Charity for the job, but this search already felt like a major intrusion into her privacy.
This time he went broader with his search parameters, typing in Pastor Blaine and Charity and Cole to see what would come up.
Bingo!
Several news articles, from just over three years ago.
Miles clicked on the top article, Popular Minister Takes Own Life. Below the headline was a wedding picture of a beaming Charity and a good looking arsehole in a tux.
Miles stared at the picture for a long while. She looked so young and happy. Her hair was much shorter. A sleek, chin length bob. Her smile was all sunshine and joy and rainbows. Miles had never seen that particular smile on her. And he wondered if it was gone forever.
A tragic loss if it was. And yet another reason to hate the fucker in the picture next to her. He had violently stolen that joy from her.
Miles scrubbed a hand over his face and took a bracing breath before reading.
Blaine and Charity Davenport.
She had changed her name. Likely reverted back to her maiden name. Who could blame her? She hadn’t wanted to keep anything of his. Not his ring and—apparently—not his name.
The details of the story made him sick to his stomach. The bastard had shot himself. While Charity had been asleep in bed beside him. No reason for the suicide was given. A police statement that the circumstances of his death had been deemed “not suspicious” and “self-inflicted” had been swiftly issued. The article ended with glowing avowals from “parishioners” and “friends” about how wonderful and caring and kind he had been. So selfless. Always putting others first. People were described as being “heartbroken” at the loss.
Too many not-so-subtle inferences that perhaps his marriage hadn’t been as happy as it had appeared on the surface. The wording implying that his wife hadn’t been as supportive of his work as perhaps she should have been.
Fuckers! No wonder she had fled.
The article ended with the family’s plea for privacy during “this difficult time”.
He read a few more articles. They were all pretty similar. There was a glowing obituary. Funeral notice and then interest in the story had tapered off.
Armed with a name, Miles headed back to Facebook. And this time immediately found the bastard’s page. It was open to the public and in memoriam. There were posts as recent as three days ago, stating how much his parishioners and family and community still loved and missed him.
Miles wanted to puke, reading about this wonderful, amazing wife beating motherfucker. He had seen all the faded scars on Charity’s body. Some she had happily explained. Childhood accidents, a bad hang gliding landing, rollerblades, ice skating, cycling. Tales of an active, adventurous girl and young woman. Others—far too fucking many of them—she had clammed up about. And he knew that those had come from Blaine. Burns, cuts, the scar on her forehead, and a small, oddly shaped crater on her thigh.