Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 74749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
“You’ll wait here,” Kincaid says when I open my door. “You’re too fucking close to this. Kid, I want you to make contact.”
Kid nods, climbing out of the SUV, and I know that he sent Kid rather than going himself because the club president is about the only one I’d obey right now.
Dread washes over me when Kid lifts his hand to knock only to back away, keeping to the fucking shadows as he slinks back to the vehicle.
Chapter 27
Lennox
The second shower is a necessity after what I endured at the hospital. I have newfound empathy for anyone having to experience that exam after being violated.
The water just doesn’t seem to get warm enough, but I know as I climb out and swipe my hand over the foggy mirror, revealing my pink skin, that the inability to get warm is coming from within.
I feel helpless as I pull on my clothes, more so than I did as a child because, back then, there was literally nothing I could do. Today, I’m being restrained by my department, but deep down, I don’t blame the chief. He has a department to run, and he’s responsible for having to make the difficult decisions. More often than not, those decisions will always leave one person unhappy. I just happen to be the one this time.
Wanting comfort, I picked flannel pajama pants and a thick t-shirt to wear after my shower, but the chill that seems to have settled into my bones just will not release its grip on me. My eyes dart all over in an attempt to not look at the door to my parents’ room. Going in there to check for intruders earlier was easy in the moment because I was task oriented. What I hadn’t expected to feel is this yearning need to want to curl up on their bed. Until Elle’s death, it was always a safe haven for me. It’s where I ran when I had nightmares. I cried in my mom’s arms when I was eight after the new kid in class was rude to me at lunch, making someone I thought was a friend laugh at me too.
Wanting to go back to simpler times is a pipe dream, and if wishing for it could make it come true, my life would look much different than it does now. I’ve wasted hours and days wishing for change to no avail.
I run my hands up the opposite arm, scrubbing my palms up and down as I enter my bedroom. I’m damn near to the point that my jaw is going to start trembling. I know it’s my body’s attempt to rid itself of all of the anxiety and stress I’ve shoved down these last couple of weeks. Ignoring that kind of thing doesn’t make it go away. It just builds until I can’t handle any more.
I haven’t had a panic attack in a long time, but I feel one coming on.
I reach into my closet for a thicker sweater, my eyes going wide when a hand reaches out, clamping on my throat.
I’ve never believed it when people say their life flashed before their eyes, but in this moment, I know what they mean.
I see flashes of Elle, of me standing on Rochelle’s porch that first night when we discovered Elizabeth went to Jake’s. I recall my conversation with staff, being distracted while talking to this man because I could feel Sawyer’s eyes on my back. This man walked out of the bar first, leaving Rochelle and Sawyer alone inside. I remember the jealousy, the questions I had in my head about what the two could be doing inside as a murderer walked away, his job connecting him to both victims.
This is it. Distraction will get me killed.
I gurgle under his palm, his rough grip a severe contrast to when Sawyer had his hand there. My arms flail, making me feel incredibly unprepared, even having spent countless hours training in self-defense. We were warned that real life was nothing like training when you know it’s coming. We were cautioned against it. Went through it over and over in an attempt to force muscle memory reactions rather than losing precious time by not responding immediately.
None of it matters. All that time was wasted on me.
Every ounce of air in my lungs whooshes out when he throws me to the floor. I attempt to scramble away, but he’s faster, more prepared.
I’ve pictured this, put myself in Elle’s place, spent so much time wishing it were me instead of her, but Joey Dixon, the cook from Jake’s, doesn’t keep me on my stomach. He flips me over, pressing all of his weight on me, and bile skates up my throat with the realization that death won’t be the only thing I’ll fall victim to tonight.