Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 89840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
He scrolls to check out her pictures and mixed between posts about the benefits of her teas is a photo of him. Dominic’s heart beats faster as he taps his photo. It’s him on the stage at the rally he had two weeks ago. He’s speaking to the crowd, microphone gripped in hand. He wore the Carolina blue shirt and white tie that day. Jolene picked out the shirt. If this was taken two weeks ago, this woman has been lingering for a while.
The photo is shocking, but it’s Eden’s caption that makes him uneasy.
THIS MAN IS A FRAUD.
“What?” he gripes. He scrolls to see if there are more photos of him but there aren’t. Aggravated, he logs back out of the app and drops the phone on the table.
Who the hell does this woman think she is? He’s the fraud? She’s the one pretending to be some voodoo tea-selling witch. None of what she believes in is real.
He rolls his eyes, picking up his drink and taking a big swallow. His carries his gaze toward the bar, focusing on a woman in a tight-fitting maroon dress. She’s standing at the counter, slightly bent over as she speaks to the bartender. Dominic’s dick pulses to life as he studies the woman’s ass. He takes another slow sip as the woman finds her table. When she sits, her eyes connect with his and a smile sweeps over her lips. A sigh escapes him as he peels his gaze away. He’s promised himself to be good. To stay out of trouble. Dealing with other women is why he’s in the mess he’s in right now.
He polishes off the bourbon, collects his iPad, and leaves the bar after dropping a tip on the table. As he approaches his truck, he notices something stuck beneath one of the windshield wipers. The sheet of white paper flaps with the breeze and his throat instantly closes in on itself when he spots the dark ink bleeding through the back of it. Snatching the paper from the windshield wiper, he surveils the parking lot. Two men stand near Fox Trot, smoking cigarettes and eyeing him. One of them waves with bright eyes, as if aware that it’s the governor, and he nods at them before climbing into his truck right away.
He sits behind the wheel for a second, the paper crumpled in his shaking hands as he watches the men finish off their cigarettes and head back inside. When they’re gone, he drops his head and finally finds the nerve to open the paper. His mouth goes bone dry when he reads: CHECK YOUR TRUNK, BAKER
“Shit.” He shudders a breath as he balls the paper up and places it in one of the cupholders. His eyes venture to the rearview mirror, as if someone will be waiting for him in the backseat, but there is nothing but leather seats and a slash of orangey-gold light from the streetlamp.
He steps back out of the car, taking cautious steps toward the trunk. When he pops it open, he’s aware of the gray gym bag and tall sack of golf clubs, but there is something back here that doesn’t belong. Something he’s never placed there or seen before.
A small black grocery bag is tied loosely by the handles. He picks his head up again, looking for the person who could’ve done this. How could they? His truck was locked.
Wiping his hands on the front of his shirt, he reaches forward and unties the bag. He spreads the bag open wider, the sound of swishing plastic colliding with his thudding heartbeat, and when he sees what’s inside it, he cups his mouth and stifles a shout.
Inside the bag is a dead, bloody crow. Its beady eye stares up at Dominic, allowing him to see his own blanched reflection. But it’s not the crow that makes him want to sink into the earth and never come up for air.
It’s the photo attached to it.
He lifts the bloody photo and it’s an image of Brynn at Galveston Lounge. And standing behind her, face clear as day, is himself. He’s looking off a bit in the photo, like he’s speaking to someone else, but it’s definitely him.
Hands shaking, he flips the photo over and written in black ink are the words: SIN AFTER SIN. LOOK HOW DEEP YOU’RE IN.
TWENTY-THREE
JOLENE
Dominic is away, wasting time at the Fox Trot. How do I know? Because about six weeks ago, while he was sleeping, I turned on the location sharing on his phone. I know exactly where he is, and when I saw him pinned at the Fox Trot, I had every urge to drive there, curse him the hell out, and demand answers about these offshore accounts.
I couldn’t bring myself to do it, though. After the visit from my mother and checking all of my accounts with True Oil Co., I gave Anita a call and she confirmed that a stock had indeed been sold. She gave me the name of the banks the money from the sale are going to, but the accounts can only be accessed in person.