Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 101398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 507(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 507(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
It’s a shock to see my mother’s name in the paper and have it not be about some event she’s attended or charity function she’s hosted. Both she and Thomas are being questioned by the police, and it makes me wonder how much they’ve found on them—and just how bad it really is.
After they left Red Bridge, I gave Bennett and Breezy’s lawyer everything I had—Alexis’s letter, along with the proof inside. Last I heard, they had turned everything over to the New York DA, and it was being investigated.
I can only assume my suspicions of there being more girls are correct, and it doesn’t make me feel good, that’s for damn sure. It only makes me feel really sad. Sad that I was so naïve about them. But mostly, sad that it’s possible they ruined other people’s lives. Sad that there could be another girl like Alexis who was forced into an impossible situation and fear made her follow through with something she didn’t want to do.
Without even thinking, I tap out of the article and head to my contacts to call Bennett. But just as my finger hovers over his name, I realize it’s after two in the morning, and while he’s the one person I want to talk to about this, he’s the last person who wants to talk to me.
God, I miss him.
Thoughts of him and Summer swirl inside my head like a tornado. A hundred different memories flash behind my eyes. Bennett’s smile. Bennett’s laugh. Giggling with Summer in his studio about Kim and Kourtney and Khloe while he painted. Turning Summer’s nails sparkly pink before the fake Josie and Clay wedding. Eating sandwiches surrounded by grass and butterflies while Bennett fielded business calls with his sister. Looking for shooting stars with them in the yard.
Before I know it, tears are dripping down my cheeks and I’m peeking inside Josie’s bedroom to see if she’s still asleep.
When I confirm I’m the only one awake, I head back into my bedroom and slide on a pair of sandals, grab my phone and the keys to Josie’s Civic, and walk out the front door in only my pajamas as quietly as I can manage.
I get in the car, start the engine, and silently pray the sounds of the Civic roaring to life don’t wake up my sister. I don’t know why I don’t want Josie to know what I’m doing. Maybe I’m afraid she’ll judge me. Maybe I fear she’ll derail my plans.
Or maybe I’m unable to really face what I’m about to do.
The sky is dark, and the road is only illuminated by my headlights as I drive over the gravel driveway and take a left onto the main road.
I don’t even bother turning on the radio, my pounding heart the only thing vibrating in my ears.
And that heart of mine keeps pounding away as I drive, growing louder and more persistent as I close in on my destination.
A big white farmhouse comes into view, as well as the barn that I know still showcases the wall I painted. The wall that Summer begged him to keep forever.
Summer.
God, how I miss her.
The brakes squeak as I pull the Civic to a stop and shut off the engine. The house is dark, besides the porch light, and I sit there for I don’t know how long warring with myself on whether this is a good idea.
A light flicks on from the side of the house, illuminating the walkspace to the studio. And the tall, muscular frame of a man I can’t stop thinking about, can’t stop worrying about, can’t stop missing—can’t stop craving, needing, wanting—comes into view as he walks from the big house to his favorite place to paint.
He doesn’t notice the Civic in his driveway or me in the driver’s seat. And when he walks into the studio and shuts the door behind him, I hop out of the car and follow.
Not even a minute later, I find him inside, roughly tossing one of his finished paintings onto a stack of another three. He still hasn’t noticed my presence, but the bourbon he consumed tonight is probably still flowing through his veins.
When two more canvases are carelessly added to the pile, I find my voice.
“Bennett?”
He stops on a dime but pointedly doesn’t turn around to face me. “Go home, Norah.”
Go home. The words are the nails, and the stern intonation of his voice is the hammer, driving a piercing pain straight into my heart.
“What are you doing?”
“Go home,” he repeats and yanks an abstract painting he painted before Summer passed away off an easel. With a sickeningly rough toss, it gets added to the pile.
When he pulls out a box of matches and stands over the discarded canvases that sit in the center of the room, concern clutches my chest.