The Bitter Truth Read Online Shanora Williams

Categories Genre: Contemporary, Suspense, Thriller Tags Authors:
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Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 89840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
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He kept her going at it, shedding the pounds, blossoming into a beautiful woman. He told her his goals, his plans, all of which involved money, and she was there for it all. She wanted to succeed with him, to be at his side, to watch him win. She never cared for copious amounts of attention, but he did, because a specific type of attention could get him paid. Many would consider Dominic a predator. He wasn’t that. He just knew what he wanted, and he went after it.

He considers this as he walks into the studio apartment and flips a light switch on. He drops his bag on the bed against the wall, scanning his eyes around the space. Jo had hired someone to deck out the apartment—pale blue walls, a large flat-screen TV, a sparkling kitchen made of silvers and marble. The little center pieces on the coffee table and dining table are Jo’s touch.

He strips out of his clothes and makes his way to the shower. He lets the hot water run over him and when he feels thoroughly clean, he gets out and wraps a towel around his waist. He pours himself a bourbon and carries it to the patio, focused on the skyline. It’s beautiful at night.

His eyes fall to the parking lot of a gas station across the way. The neon red sign of the station beams in the night. An old silver Beetle is parked near the end of the lot. Two people sit on the back of the vehicle, dressed in dark clothing. He sips his bourbon, realizing how out of place the car is. His apartment resides on the classier side of the city, so this car shouldn’t be hanging around. It doesn’t belong.

The people sit still for a long time, and it takes him a minute to realize they’re looking right back at him. A frown takes hold of him as he watches the people toss a hand up and wave.

“What the hell . . .” He backs away, entering the apartment again. Must be some randoms. Of course, if he can see them, they can see him.

He goes for his bag on the bed to take out clothes, but it’s as he’s taking a shirt out that he sees the envelope on the pillow. It wasn’t there when he first walked in, and knowing this causes his chest to tighten.

He sets the bourbon down to pick up the envelope. There are images inside it—pictures of Jolene . . . and him. In one of the photos, his hand is closed around her throat, and he’s visibly angry while Jolene stares up at him, veins on her forehead, her hand clutching his as she chokes.

He wheezes, dropping the glass on the ground. It shatters into pieces, but he doesn’t move. This image was taken from outside their house, right through the kitchen window. He snatches out another picture of Jolene standing on the terrace, sipping from a coffee mug. Then another of her sitting in a coffee shop, but this image is what terrifies him most because she’s not alone. She’s sitting at the table with that witch from the rally. All the images are small, as if printed on a portable printer.

He notices black marker bleeding through a sheet of paper in the envelope and snatches it out to read the words.

THROUGH THE WINDOWS I CAN SEE.

HOW YOU TREAT YOUR WIFE SO MISERABLY.

HOW CAN YOU BE SO CRUEL, MR. BAKER?

WHEN THE TRUTH COMES OUT, I’LL SAVE HER.

“No.” His throat is dry, hands shaking as he reads the words again and again. Then he freezes and looks up when he realizes the person got into his apartment. They’re probably still here.

He places the envelope down and steps over the broken glass to get to the kitchen. He pulls out the largest knife from the knife set and holds it in front of him. The only doors belong to the bathroom and laundry room. He checks the bathroom first. Nothing.

He faces the sliding laundry door next and his heart drops. He’s not sure how he hadn’t noticed the streak of blood on it when he passed by it the first time. The wooden paneling of the doors could hide so much behind them. They give a clear view for someone to wait, to watch.

He grips the door handle, heart beating madly, and wastes no time swinging it open. There is no one inside, however there is a dirty beige faux leather purse with streaks of blood tied to the upper rack, dangling by a broken strap. Dominic sucks in a sharp breath, knowing for a fact it’s the same purse Brynn Wallace had the night he was with her in New Orleans.

TWENTY-NINE

JOLENE

I normally don’t have people visit me so late at night. I like to think that any time after ten o’clock is an unholy hour. Not that I’m very religious, or anything. I do believe there is a higher power overseeing us all and that they determine how our lives are strung together. And whomever this higher power is, I find myself quite upset with them, because the way my life has developed is far from a dream.


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