Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 84377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
“What happened?”
“I… I have to go.” A rustling sound scratches through the line. “I’ll call you back.”
“Wait. I’m about three hours away. Are you still at John’s house?”
“You can’t come here. Promise me.”
A chill crawls over my scalp. “If you’re in trouble, I’m calling the cops.”
“No!” A cry chokes her voice. “No cops. Please. I’ll call you back.”
The line disconnects.
Fucking shit, what the hell was that?
Is she hurt? In danger? Why did she have to call me back? She was whispering and sounded really fucking scared.
My breathing accelerates. I don’t know what to do.
I throw on jeans, a t-shirt, and shove my feet into Jarret’s boots. Then I wait.
Thirty minutes later, she hasn’t called back.
I try redialing the private number. It’s blocked.
Grabbing my keys and purse, I race to my car and start the drive toward northern Texas. I still have John’s address, and I still carry the small knife under the driver’s seat. Not that I intend on using the latter, but she said, No cops.
Does that mean she’s involved in something criminal? The whole fucking family is covered in blood. I should turn around and stay the fuck out of it.
Except I gave her my number with the unspoken offer to help. God, that was over two years ago. What if he’s been hurting her or holding her against her will all this time?
I hit the gas and drive through the night. Eyes gritty and head heavy, I arrive on his rural road after three in the morning.
He lives on a small plot of land, surrounded by fields and woods. No neighbors. Nowhere to hide my car.
I park on the shoulder about a quarter of a mile from the house. Setting my phone on vibrate, I slip it and the knife into my pocket. Then I walk the rest of the way.
The June heat has cooled off beneath the shade of nightfall, leaving a sticky, mosquito-loving mugginess. I swat at the bloodsuckers on my arms and quiet my footfalls on the poorly paved road.
At the gravel driveway, I remain hidden in the shadows of overgrown shrubs. Darkness envelopes his house. Outside, inside, nothing stirs.
Raina told me not to come, so I don’t plan on rolling right up to the front door. Yet.
I check my phone to make sure I didn’t miss a call and linger for another ten minutes, certain they’re asleep. There’s nothing I can do tonight.
Exhaustion pulls on my eyelids as I make the trek back to the car. The motel in town appeared vacant when I passed through earlier. I’ll stay there tonight so that when she calls, I’ll be close.
Twenty minutes later, I pay the clerk, shuffle into a musty room, and fall into an uneasy sleep.
Early the next morning, I wake on a lumpy bed and immediately check my phone. No missed calls.
The knot in my stomach tightens. Something’s wrong.
How long should I wait? What if she never contacts me?
I call in sick to the diner, shower, and grab breakfast from the bakery next door. Then I return to the room and pace.
I need Jarret. If I asked him for help, he would come. He’s only two hours away. But what if he rejects my call? What if a woman answers his phone?
My chest clenches. I can’t deal with that right now. Besides, the last words I hurled at him were along the lines of let me work through my own problems.
Another hour of pacing and waiting works me into a frazzled panic. It’s almost noon before I decide on a plan. Or the beginnings of one. It’s enough to spur me into the car, armed with questions for John Holsten.
I park in his driveway, shaking and sweating. I chewed the shit out of my cheek on the way here, leaving a shredded gouge against my tongue. I can’t do this.
Yes, I can. It’s not like he’s going to kill me.
Would he?
With the knife and phone in my pocket, I head to the door and knock.
Footsteps approach from within, seizing my lungs. The door opens, and John Holsten stands on the threshold, wearing an oily smirk.
An undershirt hangs untucked from black trousers. His black and silver hair greases around his ears, long overdue for a trim. He’s also in desperate need of a shave. And a shower.
“Maybe Quinn.” His brown eyes sweep over me and pause on the boots. “Didn’t think I’d see you again. Still looking for your husband?”
“Not exactly.”
He gives my boots another narrowed glance. “My boy had a pair of those. Looked just like ‘em.”
“Jarret gave them to me.” My toes flex against the soles. “May I come in?”
“Please.” He steps aside, his gaze crawling over my skin as I slide by him. “Something to drink?”
“No, thank you.” I quickly inspect the sitting room filled with heavy wooden furniture.
Nothing seems out of place. The kitchen sits in the back. Empty. The doorway beside it leads to a small bathroom. The hallway to the left gives way to two more doors. One opens to a bedroom. The other is closed.