Total pages in book: 161
Estimated words: 151845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 759(@200wpm)___ 607(@250wpm)___ 506(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 759(@200wpm)___ 607(@250wpm)___ 506(@300wpm)
My lip wobbles.
‘His talent is a legacy, dear. A historical legacy that I hope never dies, because it’s that special. It’s that important. The Hunt Corporation is a legitimate company.’ She nods her head sharply, agreeing to her own affirmation. ‘It’s respected, valued and profitable. But it’s not as thrilling as—’
‘Stealing,’ I cut in, before the crazy old lady can finish.
Mrs Potts isn’t fazed. ‘Legitimate business doesn’t feed the need of the adventurous Hunt men.’ She grins wickedly, stunning me. She’s brainwashed. Has to be. People have lost their lives in the name of excitement. I’m about to point this out when she holds up a finger, keeping me quiet, as if fully expecting my argument. ‘I’m not talking about the sculpture, Eleanor. It’s there to be found, not stolen. If it exists at all. But that’s a quest that needs to be buried along with the tragedies it’s brought on the Hunt family. It’s cursed.’ Her eyes sink into me seriously. ‘What I’m talking about is the frightening ability that our boy has inherited,’ she goes on with a little squeeze of my hand, ensuring she has my attention. ‘His grandfather was good. His father was great. But Becker boy . . .’ Mrs Potts trails off, as if she’s trying to locate the right words to pin on my unlawful love. I have a million to offer her. ‘Becker boy is the master,’ she declares. ‘He will be back, you mark my words. This is simply a mild inconvenience, trust me. There’s not a cat in hell’s chance Becker Hunt can be caught. He’s too clever. Way too smart. Too determined. You should know that by now, Eleanor. Where’s your faith in him?’
I close my eyes to hold back my tears, reminding myself that every day I’ve spent with Becker brought a surprise, whether it was a shocking revelation in the form of his shady activities, or an equally shocking revelation in the form of his devotion or trust. I found I adored him that little bit more every hour. And I know those feelings were returned. I had faith then. I need it now more than ever.
Don’t find your way out of my maze just yet, princess. We’re not done.
I swallow down that infuriating ball of emotion and try to pull myself together. ‘I just want him back,’ I murmur, the ache inside of me intensifying to the point it’s becoming unbearable. I don’t know how much longer I can go on like this. There’s work to be done but finding my focus to do it is impossible.
Mrs Potts hauls me into her embrace and hugs me tightly, patting my back soothingly. ‘I know, dear. We all do.’
‘Why hasn’t he called?’ There’s been no word, no breaking story of an arrest in connection with the stolen ruby. Surely it’s newsworthy. Surely Becker would know I’d be out of my mind and at least get in touch.
‘I’m sure there’s a perfectly good reason.’
‘Like?’
The long stretch of silence soon tells me that she has no answer. It doesn’t help. The unknown is petrifying. ‘Call your mother and Lucy. Both are wondering what’s going on.’
‘Have you told them?’ God, how am I going to explain this?
Mrs Potts looks me straight in the eye. ‘There’s nothing to tell, dear.’
Chapter 38
I know it’s a bad habit and I shouldn’t be encouraging it, but having Winston curled up on Becker’s bed is comforting. Hearing his deep, rumbling snore goes some way towards drowning out my racing mind, though it unreasonably riles me that Winston can find sleep so easily.
After checking in with Mum, assuring her everything is fine and listening to her babble on about the wonders of London, I call Lucy. ‘Mark’s asked me to move in with him!’ she screeches down the phone, and for the first time in what feels like days, I smile.
‘I’m happy for you.’
‘I’m happy for me, too! Hey, did Becker find anything out about the stolen ruby?’ she asks, and I tense. ‘You know, since he’s in that game.’
‘What game?’
‘The art and antiques game,’ she goes on, and I roll my eyes at myself. ‘I bet that’s caused a shit storm of gargantuan proportions. How embarrassing.’
‘Slightly,’ I quip, and she laughs.
‘How is Becker, by the way?’
Locked up. ‘Busy,’ I say, a little high-pitched.
‘We should do dinner. The four of us. When are you guys free?’
Free. ‘Let you know?’
‘Sure. Call me tomorrow. Gotta go. I have my notice to hand in on my poky flat.’ She chuckles and hangs up.
I drop my phone to my bed and stare up at the ceiling, but I don’t see the smooth painted plaster that’s there. I see raw bricks. The comfortable mattress doesn’t feel squidgy. It feels solid, and the duck down quilt feels rough and itchy. I shiver, my skin prickling with chills in the warm safety of Becker’s luxurious bed.