Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 116708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 584(@200wpm)___ 467(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 584(@200wpm)___ 467(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
I stared at him in disbelief. Of course, Jeff had told him how to find me. What better way to slay me than to send a hitman he didn’t even have to pay.
His gaze lifted over my shoulder. “If now’s not a good time, I’m happy to come back later.”
Now wasn’t a good time.
Later wouldn’t be a good time, either.
Never was probably the only good.
I’d spent too many years clawing my way out of that darkness. Therapy. Meditation. Yoga. I’d done it all. There was no way I was going to risk unraveling the progress I had painstakingly achieved for the sake of a fucking documentary.
Squaring my shoulders, I handed him back the card. “You have the wrong person.”
“See, I don’t think I do. I’ve spoken with other survivors and—”
“I’m not a survivor,” I seethed.
“Everything okay?” Lucille called.
My body shook with anger, but I tamped it down in the name of professionalism. “Yeah, I was just about to see Mr. Folly out.” Stepping over the threshold, I forced him to back away. Waiting until the door was fully closed, I spoke with my voice low and my tongue sharp. “First of all, I find it disturbing that you thought ambushing me about the most traumatizing day of my life would be acceptable in any regard. But to do it when you so obviously have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.” I shook my head. “You disgust me.”
His smile changed, or maybe I finally saw through the façade. It wasn’t kind or warm—this man was one hundred percent cold and calculating. “What exactly is it that you think I don’t know, Gwen?”
Every. Fucking. Thing.
“For starters, one Google search would tell you I wasn’t in the mall that day.”
“Maybe not. But you were there. We have the recording of your nine-one-one call.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end—a suffocating mixture of anger and pain filling my chest. I channeled the anger—it was easier to process. “Then you have already received the only statement you will ever get from me. Get the fuck off my property before I have the police escort you away.” With that, I turned on a toe and started back inside.
My fingers had barely brushed the handle when his words hit me like a hand grenade.
There was no deafening blast, no flying debris, no physical destruction. But his question tore through me with devastating effects.
“Do you still keep in contact with Truett West?”
The world shrank around me like plastic wrap, stealing my ability to breathe. Fire flooded my veins, and the pressure in my chest felt like a vortex trying to separate me from my soul. I spun around so fast my head swam. “Excuse me?”
He tipped his head. “We haven’t been able to reach him, either. I just figured—”
“Stay away from him!” I exploded, rushing forward. “Under no circumstance are you allowed to contact him. Do you understand me?”
He peered down his nose at me, his expression neutral but still grotesquely arrogant. “We believe his narrative would be crucial to our film.”
“His narrative?” I hissed. “This isn’t fucking fiction. People died that day. Even the survivors. Nobody walked out of that mall unscathed. Are you seriously standing here, telling me that you want to dredge that up, for what? Morbid curiosity? Entertainment?” I pressed up onto my toes and got in his face. “Money?”
His reaction to my outburst was so nonplussed it felt robotic. “We’re trying to raise awareness about gun violence.”
“You don’t need Truett for that! Watersedge happened eighteen years ago. There have been dozens of tragedies since then. Go dig up those graves.”
I didn’t hear the door open before Dylan’s arms circled around my waist from behind, restraining me.
“What the hell is going on out here?” she barked.
He lifted his hands placatingly and aimed his dry response at her. “I was just asking a few questions. I didn’t mean to stir up anything.”
“Bullshit!” I yelled, fighting against Dylan’s hold. “A Goddamn documentary will stir up everything. Some people just want to forget.”
“That is precisely what we’re worried about,” he challenged. “People have already forgotten. This documentary will—”
“Destroy him!” I boomed, finishing his statement. “This fucking documentary will absolutely ruin him, and I’ll be honest there isn’t much of that man left to begin with. Leave. Him. Alone.”
Angela stepped in front of me, blocking my path and more than likely an assault charge. “This conversation is over. You need to go, sir.”
He held my gaze over her shoulder. “Don’t you think a hero should be celebrated?”
“What is there to celebrate?” I shouted. “Forty-eight people died in that mall.”
“There were over a hundred others who escaped because of Truett West,” he countered. “Given the amount of unused ammunition found on the scene, that was a miracle. We believe that’s the story people need to hear.”