Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 77551 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77551 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
But to my surprise, she doesn’t.
“Okay,” she finally says, her voice tight. “Thank you for telling me about Jake.”
We lapse into silence once more, the air between us heavy with the weight of our shared grief. As much as I want to comfort her, to tell her it will get easier with time, I know it’s a lie. Grief never truly goes away. It just changes shape.
Besides, she didn’t know Jake like I did. She’ll never know how special he truly was.
We sit together in silence until the sun dips below the horizon and the moon ascends to cascade its light on the ocean.
Misty and I have already tried to hook up. We both agreed it didn’t work well for us.
So what now?
My plate of ribeye, mashed potatoes, and green beans still sits untouched.
I take a sip of the lusty Zinfandel in my wineglass.
“Can you tell me anything else?” Misty asks.
“Only that your brother was one of a kind,” I say. “One of a fucking kind.”
EPISODE 176
MIKE
River
The traffic here moves like molasses. I tap the steering wheel of my rental, glance at the lines of glittering cars around me, each one as restless as the next. Miami. It’s all sun, sheen, and too many people packed into too small a space, like cattle herded into a pen that’s already full. Everything’s loud here—engines roaring, neon lights shouting for attention, music blaring from every direction. Back home, all I hear is the lowing of cattle and the wind through the pines.
I pull to a stop at a light, staring up at the palm trees. Weird thing is that there seem to be more of them here than on the island. They’d be torn up and gone in one good Montana windstorm. Out there, everything has to be strong just to survive.
Hell, so do the people. The guys and I had to suck up a lot of bullshit to get where we are today.
And damn...
We did some bad things. Some really bad things.
The light turns green, and I roll forward.
I’ve got something to do, and it can’t wait any longer.
Twenty Years Earlier...
“I’m going after Marnie, River. And I’m going now.”
“Fuck, Jake.” I shake my head. “Where the hell did you get the piece?”
I have my own pistol. Several rifles. My dad taught me to shoot when I was just a kid, before his accident. I’m a crack shot. But Jake?
Fuck.
“It’s my mother’s,” he says.
“You know how to work it?”
He spits on concrete in Seb’s back yard. “I’m not a moron, Riv. I know how to shoot. I’ve done it before.”
Chills skitter up the back of my neck. “Jake, I swear to God, you’re not yourself, okay?”
“Fuck off.” He walks through the gate and out of Seb’s yard.
I follow him. “You don’t know she went there.”
“Where the hell else would she go? She followed us to Larson’s, and something happened. There’s no other explanation.”
I can think of another explanation, but Jake won’t want to hear it. Marnie could be having a miscarriage somewhere. Or she could have gone home and her parents aren’t letting her talk to him.
I don’t think she followed us to Larson’s, but the only way to convince Jake is to go back to prove I’m right. It’s not a good idea, going back to the scene of our crime, but I’m out of ideas at this point. Jake is going, and I can’t stop him. I can at least tag along and make sure he doesn’t go off half-cocked.
It’s a trek from town, and we don’t talk. We just walk the dusty path until the Larson property comes into view. And as we do, a hollow feeling of dread overtakes me. Something’s going to go wrong. I can feel it in the way the silence hangs thick around us, in the heavy crunch of gravel beneath our boots. The place is too still, like it’s waiting.
Every instinct I’ve got is screaming to turn around, to walk away, but I push forward. I won’t leave Jake. I won’t let him do something he’ll regret.
Each step feels heavier than the last, and I can’t shake the sense that we’re about to cross another line.
And this one we won’t come back from.
Present Day...
After driving through Miami, I come to a small beach community on the coast. It’s like another world—quiet, unhurried, with pastel houses and fishing boats bobbing gently in the water. The air is salty and thick, warm with the sun but cooled by a soft breeze that feels like a breath of relief after the chaos of the city.
I find the address I’m looking for. It’s a tiny house with stucco painted pink. I park in front of it.
The mailbox is hanging open, and I reach to close it, but before I do, I peek inside. A fishing magazine, a few flyers, and some bills addressed to Michael Brown. Tampering with the mail is a federal offense, of course, so I shove it all back into the box and walk to the door.