Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 80969 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80969 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
I’m busy working at the diner and taking walks with Buddy. Life is good. Better than I could’ve ever imagined it would be.
I’ve also made a start at stripping the walls in the nursery, ready to prime it, so I can paint it.
I’m just not sure what color to go with.
I guess it depends on whether I decide to find out the sex of the baby when I have my next ultrasound.
But then I suppose it doesn’t have to be a pink or blue room. It could be yellow or green or lilac or even white with colored accessories to brighten it up.
As I ponder the possibilities of paint colors, I watch Buddy over by the fence.
I wrap my arms around myself, shifting restlessly on my feet. “Hurry up, Bud,” I say more to myself than him because what I’ve learned with Buddy is that he’s a dog with his own mind.
He walks down the fence a little further. Stopping and sniffing before he finally takes a leak.
Hallelujah.
“Come on inside now, Bud.” I clap my hands to get his attention. “Time for bed.”
“No!” a voice cries out.
I freeze.
Buddy stops and turns back to the fence. A low growl emits from him.
“Don’t you … fucking touch me!”
My heart drops through the floor at the words and the agony in them.
Is that River?
Buddy’s growling increases.
“Buddy, come here.” My voice is firm.
He looks at me and then back to the fence.
“Buddy.”
Finally, he listens to me and comes back up the deck.
“Good boy.” I reach down and pat him. I open the back door and usher him inside. “Wait here for me,” I tell him before closing the door.
“Stop it, you sick fuck!” another agonized cry comes.
It’s definitely coming from River’s house.
What if he’s in trouble? Or hurt? Or worse?
I have to go help him.
I look around for a weapon. My eyes land on the gardening fork and trowel that I left out here.
Fork or trowel?
What would do the most damage?
The fork is pointy. Meaning it’s stabby. That’ll do.
I grab it and head down the steps into my garden.
I walk quickly through my garden and slip through the gap in the fence, taking me into River’s garden.
I quickly but quietly cross the garden, skirt around the pool, and go up to his house.
The upstairs window directly above me is open. That must be where he is. How I heard him from my place.
I call out his name.
No reply.
Maybe he’s okay now. I mean, he hasn’t made another sound in a—
“I’ll do it! I swear!”
Looks like I’m going in.
Swallowing the fear I’m feeling, I take a deep breath.
You can do this. He needs your help.
Garden fork still in hand, I walk up to the back door. I try the handle—unlocked.
I guess, in Canyon Lake, people don’t lock their doors.
I pause, hand on the handle. If I step inside, am I breaking and entering?
I really should call the police because, if he is in trouble, it’s not like I can do much.
But the last thing I want to do is deal with the police, and it’s not like I have a lot of trust in the police. Not that I think all cops are bad like Neil. But it’s hard to trust them after I called his colleagues, asking for help, and they let me down so badly.
And it’s not like I can just leave River in pain. Alone.
Guess it’s just the garden fork and me.
“Don’t touch me. I’ll … ah, no! Fuck, it hurts.” His cries sound painfully erotic.
My heart twists in my chest.
I open the door and step inside the house, leaving it open behind me in case I need a quick escape out of here.
My eyes adjust to the dark, but I still manage to catch my hip on the edge of a table.
“Fudge,” I hiss.
I don’t let the sting of pain slow me down.
I reach the stairs. Stopping at the bottom, I stare up at the darkness beyond.
Be brave.
Lifting the garden fork to chest height, I hold it with both hands, ready to stab or hit with it if necessary. I slowly step to walk up the wooden stairs on silent feet.
Another painful moan has me moving a little quicker, clutching the handle of the fork a little tighter.
I’m not thinking of myself in this moment. I’m thinking of him—another human being. Wanting to help him, the way I wish someone had been there to help me.
I reach the top where I stop and glance around, trying to figure out which room is his.
The noise was coming from the back window that was open, so that must be where he is.
And there’s an open door at the far end of the hall.
Garden fork at the ready, I creep toward the door.
A floorboard creaks loudly in the silence, under my weight, and I freeze, holding my breath, listening for any sound or movement.