Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 114419 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 458(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114419 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 458(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
She thought the writing looked very similar to that of the note found in the waistband of the murder victim, but she’d compare them side by side when she got back to the station.
She turned the envelope over, but there was nothing on the back. It had been opened hastily by Lucia, who had likely torn open the end and then dragged her finger along the top, tearing the seam. Hopefully she hadn’t unknowingly destroyed DNA or other evidence.
Sienna slipped out the note and began to read.
A week after my thirteenth birthday, a stray dog had shown up in our neighborhood, and I’d been secretly feeding him on our back porch each morning before school. He was a shy mutt but obviously hungry, and I’d sit nearby while he scarfed down the offered food, one eye on his bowl and one eye on me. For the first couple of days, he’d slink away, but finally he began sniffing my outstretched hand tentatively, then allowing me to pet his head. It gave me a strange sense I’d never experienced before—the idea that I might matter to a creature I could hurt if I wanted to. It was an odd power to consider. But I didn’t want to hurt the dog. Just the opposite—I wanted to care for him. I wanted to help him because no one else had bothered.
That day, before I left for school, I fed the dog I’d begun calling Jaxon, and he nuzzled my hand after his meal, his tail wagging back and forth as he lay on the porch to nap in the sun. I thought about Jaxon that day, wondered if Mother might let me bring him inside and keep him. I worried she wouldn’t. Mother kept a very tidy house and liked things just so. Perhaps if I gave him a bath outside with the hose and brushed his black fur until it shone. Maybe then, Mother would let me keep him. I pictured Jaxon curled up at the end of my bed, keeping me safe as I slept, and at the image, that same unknown feeling wound through, glittery and warm. I bet you’ve experienced that feeling. I bet you’ve experienced it a lot. But it was new to me.
My stomach dropped when I arrived home to see my father’s car in the driveway. I hurried inside, placing my backpack on the hook near the door just as Mother liked and lining up my shoes underneath. My heart had begun to race, my stomach lurching the way it did when Father arrived home from his travels, tired and hungry and, if business had been less than stellar, looking for someone to take his aggression out on.
I first went to the back porch to see if Jaxon was still there, curled up in his pool of sunshine. But when I looked out the window, no Jax. That’s when I heard what I thought was a small, muffled whimper coming from the side of the house. I raced out the back door, rounded the porch, my socked feet skidding in the grass, a cry escaping my lips when I saw Jaxon, covered in blood, using his front legs to pull himself forward, his back legs splayed uselessly behind him as though he’d somehow become paralyzed.
Horror filled me and the world seemed to slow as I looked up, my father just feet away, a gun in hand, squinting through the sight as he aimed it at the wounded dog. I opened my mouth to yell, but my voice didn’t seem to work, and only a terrible gurgle came up my throat. My arms reached forward, toward Jaxon, who was looking at me now, terror on his face, his eyes beseeching me for help.
My father had tortured him. He was broken and half-dead, but he was still trying to crawl away. To escape. I knew what that felt like. I knew just what that felt like.
Something clanged loudly inside my head, black spots appearing before my eyes, the world rippling around me like an earthquake was erupting, but only in our yard. Beyond us, there was blue sky. There was stillness. And safety.
But not here. Never here.
The shot rang out, and Jaxon’s upper body collapsed to the grass, blood pouring from the hole in his head, his body still. Lifeless. My voice erupted then, breaking through my horror, my yell piercing the stillness as all went utterly dark.
I awoke on the kitchen floor, my throat raw, my head pounding. “There, there.” Mother’s voice. “Take your time. You fainted, silly boy.”
I groaned and pulled myself up, the room swimming as I brought my hands to my head and took a minute to get my bearings. Once the worst of the fogginess had cleared, I lowered my hands, opening my eyes and gaping at the scene in front of me. My father sat at the table, his arms and legs bound to a chair with duct tape, a gag in his mouth, and blood dripping from a gash across his skull. He followed me with his wide, glazed eyes as I came to my feet, looking at Mother, who leaned casually against the counter, a glass of lemonade in hand. She held it out to me. “Take a drink. It’s quite refreshing.”