Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
“Why? I’m fine.”
I was. Totally sane.
I was fine that my mom wasn’t home again. I was fine that I wasn’t driving to see Robbie today. I was fine that I’d lost another member of my family.
Yes. It was all copacetic with me.
There were no slightly psychotic tendencies at all.
My nails sank into my arm. I didn’t pull them out, even when I felt a trickle of blood. It felt good, refreshing.
Thirty minutes later, we turned off the interstate and Ryan glanced down. “Holy shit! Mac!” He reached for my arm, and I pulled my nails away. Five indented pockets had formed, and blood flowed from all of them.
He cursed under his breath and hit the turn signal, veering into a gas station parking lot. “What the fuck just happened?” Slamming to a stop in front of the building, he threw open his door. “Get out. We’re getting that fixed.”
He held my arm, locking the door with his free hand and pocketing the keys. With a firm hold, he led me inside and asked for the first aid kit. The gas attendant eyed me warily but handed over the kit and said the bathroom was in the back.
We started down an aisle, and he barked at us, “I meant outside.”
Ryan glared at him. “Thanks. Your sensitivity is commendable.”
The attendant shrugged and grabbed some smokes for another customer.
Ryan’s back hit the door hard, and he continued to pull me with him, glaring over my head.
There was a metal picnic table around the corner near the hose. Ryan went there instead, patting the top. “Hop up.”
He placed the kit beside me, and as I sat, that numb feeling came back. It was like a blanket encasing me, shielding me from the real pain going on. The nail cuts weren’t even a blip on my radar.
One of the four pieces loosened. It was going to fall away.
I frowned. “I was getting better.”
Ryan was hunched over, cleaning out my cuts. He paused, straightening to meet my gaze. “What?”
“I was getting better.” My head felt so heavy suddenly.
I was sleepy. I bent forward, my forehead resting on Ryan’s shoulder.
“She went away today, and there were four pieces,” I mumbled against his shirt. “They all fit. I was getting better.”
Ryan went rigid and slowly, agonizingly slowly, reached up to cradle the back of my head. “Who went away?”
“Willow.”
But that wasn’t completely right. She’d spoken to me, hadn’t she? That had been her in the car. Right?
He was like a statue. “Willow’s been with you?” His voice sounded rough.
I nodded, straightening. It hurt to look at him. The sun behind him was so bright that it made me tear up. “She left me earlier, but she talked to me in the car.”
“She talked to you?”
“Once.”
That had been her? The question was still bugging me.
“She’s been talking to you?”
His hand moved to my neck. He traced some of my hair, smoothing it over my shoulder. Bending forward so only a few inches separated us, his eyes found mine..
I looked away. I couldn’t look him in the eyes. I didn’t know why, but I had messed up.
I wasn’t able to think clearly. What did I say wrong?
Willow, what did I do?
I felt a tear slide down my face. “She won’t answer me.”
“Willow won’t?”
Willow . . .
I shook my head. “She’s gone.”
I wanted her back. My heart clenched. I wanted her back. I wanted to talk to her again, feel her again.
More tears slid down my face. “Ryan, where did she go?”
He stared at me, his pupils dilated.
Willow. I wasn’t supposed to talk about her. But she was gone again.
I crumpled inside. I felt myself curling into a ball, and Ryan cradled me to his shoulder once again.
I cried while my arm bled.
The sanity ship sailed. I’d officially snapped.
I was talking to dead people, seeing dead people—and I wasn’t psychic.
Ryan drove me to Mallory the Homewrecker’s house. He’d cleaned up my arm after I got myself back together, but I kept using my arm to clean my tears. So the bandage was soggy, and blackened from my makeup.
Going up to the door, Ryan knocked. His other hand laced through mine.
I considered lifting my bag and saying, “Trick or treat,” but the door opened, and nothing came out of me.
The woman gasped, seeing me.
“Is Mr. Malcolm here?” Ryan asked.
Her hands shot up to cover her mouth. She matched her pictures on Facebook, but she was even prettier in person.
I hated her.
My hostility helped push away some of my craziness, and I was able to stop some of the tears—some of them. I was still sniffling like a crack head.
She eyed me for a moment and leaned forward. Comprehension flared, and she stepped backward. “Phillip!” she yelled over her shoulder before turning back to me. “You’re Mackenzie.”
I didn’t answer. I summoned all my energy into a glare. I wanted to give her the full force of Willow and me. It was only right, since she was missing out on the more wrathful one of us.