Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 138169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
“You can walk away from me right now if you’d like. Nothing bad will happen to you, I promise,” he whispers. “I’m not making demands with my badge. I’m asking you to help me as a human being. And if you feel that what I’m asking you is wrong, or if it scares you, or even if you just don’t want to—tell me no. We’ll never speak of it again. I’ll go back to being that cop you say hello to now and then whenever we pass each other on the street. Not the strange man asking you to help him scale a goddamned mountain.”
I don’t know why that hurts.
Yes, I’ve been tossed into Micah’s orbit so fast it’s left me dizzy. Yet the thought of being cast back down and just being acquaintances leaves an odd tightness in my chest.
He basically saved my life, didn’t he?
And I wonder if that’s my conscience talking when he’s asking me for help or if it’s that damsel in distress reaction I can’t smother, getting emotionally attached to a white knight who came charging to my rescue.
Whatever it is, I can’t stop myself from asking, “…and what if I say maybe? What if I say I’ll think about it?”
“Then I’ll ask you to go camping with me tomorrow night.” His eyes are smiling when he says it.
“I… What?” He’s very good at that, catching me off guard. I can never figure out what goes through this man’s head. “I don’t follow. What does camping have to do with Xavier Arrendell?”
“Everything,” Micah whispers. “You aren’t sure because you need proof, you need more info—and I’m going to show you, Miss Grey.”
I’m still reeling by the time we part ways.
I take the long way home to give myself time to think, walking alone under the clear night sky without Micah turning me upside down with his nearness.
I’m so confused.
I don’t know how I’m supposed to trick Xavier Arrendell into incriminating himself in front of me, or even what incriminating clues would look like. This idea that Xavier’s a drug dealer, that he may be behind a major regional drug operation…
This isn’t my world.
It’s not something I understand, and it’s definitely not somewhere I belong.
I can’t unknow what I know now, though.
Even if I tell Micah no, I’ll still have that awareness in the back of my mind, always watching Xavier like a skittish animal.
God, I don’t know what to do.
If I listen to Micah and he’s wrong, I could wind up hurting a man whose worst crime is struggling with complex grief over his dead brothers. It could be true that Xavier’s a drug addict, and honestly, being an Arrendell would probably drive anyone to bad habits.
But if he is, couldn’t he be a victim of the drug dealers, too?
And if I tell Micah no and he’s dead-on right…
How many people will end up hooked on cocaine and dead? All because I was too scared to do anything?
This feels too big for me, like a gaping hole opening up in the fabric of my reality.
It’s not the kind of decision I can make quickly—if I can make it at all.
Right now, I can’t even decide if I’ll go camping with Micah to find out what he wants to show me.
I’m also nowhere closer to an answer by the time I make it home.
Grandpa’s waiting up for me like usual. I can tell before I cross the street to the shop.
The light in the window over the storefront is on, and when I slip into the narrow alley between our shop and the building next door, where the private outside entrance to the upstairs waits, I instantly feel safer.
The light’s on over the door, its golden glow filling the dark crevices of night.
The kitchen upstairs is just as warm, too.
I let myself in and climb the narrow stairs behind the workshop to our loft.
My grandfather sits at the raw wood kitchen table, cradling a mug of tea, his eyes almost disappearing under the thick grey bushes of his eyebrows. There’s a half-eaten loaf of banana bread in front of him, courtesy of the bakery next door.
Mrs. Brodsky stops in practically every night when I’m not around, bringing him goodies. Last year, when I asked her to check in on him, she jumped at the chance when he reminds her so much of her own deceased father. She didn’t even ask about his condition.
As far as she knows, I’m just asking for help to keep an old man company. Not to check in to make sure he hasn’t abruptly lost another piece of his mind and started the place on fire—though Grandpa’s never been anywhere near that reckless and absent-minded.
I hope—I pray—that sort of worry is a long way off.
Still, better safe than sorry.
Coming home instantly brightens my evening.