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)
The buzz of panic that had been vibrating under her skin ever since she’d seen those notes increased as Argus’s phone went to voice mail.
She hung up without leaving a message and then called for a cab.
Let me buy you a car. I’ll even teach you how to drive myself. She heard Gavin’s voice in her head.
But Mirabelle already knew how to drive. That wasn’t it, but she couldn’t tell him that.
The cabdriver dropped her in front of Argus’s house fifteen minutes later, and Mirabelle made her way quickly to the door of Argus’s small, neat house.
That buzzing sensation increased, and she almost turned back. Something’s wrong. She suddenly knew it in her gut the same way she’d known when she’d seen that car driving away, out of sight, so many years before.
Danny. Danny. Danny.
She took a deep breath and blew it out slowly, steeling herself. She had a key to Argus’s door, but it was unlocked. Somehow she’d known it would be.
“Argus?” Her voice sounded small and uncertain. Shaky.
The curtains in the front window were still closed, dust motes floating lazily in the shaft of light filtering through the gap where the fabric barely met. She called his name again, the click of her footsteps loud in her ears. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.
A startled scream broke from her lips as she dropped the things she was holding. Argus was in a chair, facing the doorway, his head lolling, his skin purple and mottled.
She rushed to him, even knowing he was already gone, the scream turning to a cry as she choked out his name. She put her hands on his cheeks, attempting to lift his head and seeing the cord still wrapped around it, the flesh there bloody and swollen. She let go of his face. He was cold. Oh, he was so cold. And stiff. He’d been dead for a while.
Her Argus. Her sweet, gentle Argus, who had made her believe in magic again.
His phone rang, startling her, and her eyes shot to it, sitting on the edge of his counter. His outgoing message came on, a spear of agony stabbing through her to hear his beloved, accented voice filling the same room where his dead body sat before her. The beep filled her head and seemed to linger there, and then Sienna’s voice came on, asking him to call her. Mirabelle heard the slight lilt of worry in her tone and clenched her eyes shut. Oh God, no, no. God, please, no.
She sank to the floor in front of Argus, her shoulders hunching as sobs racked her body. Who? Why? No. No. No. She didn’t know how long she stayed there, shaking with grief, but after a time, she forced herself to her feet. There was a silver watch on Argus’s wrist that Mirabelle had never seen before. Argus didn’t wear a watch. She stared at it, understanding dawning. The watch was made of titanium. She’d been right about the word—the name—being spelled. Oh God. Oh no.
Harry had been the E, and Argus was the T in Violet.
She clenched her eyes shut. Small moans climbed her throat, but she felt almost numb as she walked toward her purse and her phone.
That was when she spotted the red vest on his counter. Her eyes lingered, recognition and horror gripping her. Another moan burst forth, this one louder, and she spun around. No one was there, only Argus’s still, lifeless body. Her hand shaking, she reached out, running a finger over the satiny material, dread spiking.
The room wavered as she picked the garment up. She felt as though she were in a nightmare she could not—and would not—escape.
Not this time.
Another small noise behind her made her whip around again.
And there he was. A dark-haired man with a very short, neatly trimmed beard, standing behind her, his smile growing. “Hello, Mother,” he said.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Twenty-seven years ago
Violet gave the pot of spaghetti sauce a stir and then cracked the oven open to check the breadsticks. A loud metallic sound rang out, making her wince against the headache that had plagued her all day, and she brought her fingertips to her brow, pressing lightly on the bandage covering the spot where the crystal decanter had hit her.
The decanter he’d thrown at her with so much force it’d broken, slicing into her flesh and causing her to see stars.
She bent, taking the metal spatula—the one Gavin had just used to strike the pot—out of his tiny hand as he protested with a loud cry of dismay. “Here, honey,” she said, giving him a plastic spoon. He struck the pot but seemed disappointed in the hollow sound, his tiny, expressive face screwing up in consternation. Despite her aching head and the anxiety that rested on her chest, she smiled with affection. He was only two years old, but he was still a spirited little thing. As if in agreement with her thought, he went back to gleefully pounding on the pot, the vigorousness of his strikes making up for the muted sound of plastic on metal.