Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 138642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 555(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 555(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
Dammit all.
I can’t see more than a foot or two in front of my face.
Even with the trees mostly stripped of their leaves, the branches are a thick net. The black starless sky doesn’t help tonight, either.
Sighing, I stumble to a halt, inhaling and exhaling roughly, my breaths puffing in white clouds of rage.
Shit.
I’ve lost him.
And what the fuck just happened?
What was that?
What does he want with me and Ophelia?
“I don’t know,” Ophelia answers, after I voice the same question out loud.
I’ve got a funny feeling I’m about to get my head ripped clean off and honestly, rightfully so.
“But look at you, Grant—you didn’t even put shoes on. You’re a mess...”
Her eyes shine with sympathy.
Wincing, I make myself hold still while she dabs an alcohol wipe over a long scrape down my forearm, thin and shallow enough that the blood’s mostly dried.
I didn’t even feel it when it happened.
The moment I came stomping out of the woods and found her standing on the porch in nothing but one of my shirts with her phone clutched in her hand, 9-1-1 already partially typed in, she insisted on parking me on the sofa and checking me over.
Wouldn’t that have been a riot?
Calling 9-1-1 from the police captain’s house.
The boys would never let me live it down for the next decade.
While she cleans my arm, I pluck a dead leaf out of my hair.
“Sorry,” I grind out. “Never meant to startle you like that—or worry you. When I saw him, I had to—”
“Had to what? You scared the shit out of me, Grant!” Ophelia smacks my arm, right above the scratch. That honestly stings more than the little abrasions all over my chest and shoulders, though there’s a deeper one on the sole of my foot from a sharp stick that’s starting to throb. “Just tearing out of here like crazy, you didn’t even say anything. I just woke up to you running and no idea what the hell was going on. What about Nell? If you’d been a minute later, I’d have called the cops first and asked questions later.”
Goddamn, this woman.
Nell’s no relation to her, yet her first thought isn’t for herself. It’s for my little girl.
She’s brave as hell.
By some miracle, Nelly-girl snoozed through the ruckus. I’d like to keep it that way, so that’s why we talk in low, rough voices.
I also get it.
Even now, she’s hiding behind anger, but her cheeks are flushed and her lips pressed together into a nervous line. Her lashes quiver as she glares down at her hands, her fingers clumsy as she fumbles with the cap on the alcohol bottle.
I reach out to cover her hand, stopping her, and tip her face up to kiss those trembling lips.
My heart wants to stop, knowing that tremor is for me.
That she cares so goddamned much.
I remember what I was thinking about before I heard that snap.
I don’t know what we are to each other, but I sure as hell want to have that conversation.
I can’t imagine letting Ophelia slip out of my life.
Not unless she really wants to go.
Not unless she plans to run off again and leave the dust of my heart and the ashes of this freaky town in her wake for good.
Tracing the line of her lips, I draw back, stroking her cheek.
“I’m fine now,” I murmur. “More worried about you, Philia. This man’s clearly stalking you. You feeling okay?”
“No,” she answers, though with less force than before. “I’m angry, Grant. What does he want with me? Why is he doing this?”
“Wish I knew,” I reply before firming my voice into a promise. “Tomorrow, I’m going up to the big house—and I’ll be damned if I leave before I get some answers.”
Frankly, I don’t know if I’m going to get shit.
Certainly not without a fight.
I stand in the grand hall of the Arrendell mansion with Montero Arrendell just over my shoulder.
He’s hovering, sticking just close enough that it’s obvious he’s trying to make me uncomfortable.
If I actually gave a shit, he might be intimidating.
Right now, I’m too far past that.
I’m laser focused on the full staff complement lined up in front of me. Men and women in maid uniforms or tailcoats and livery.
Seeing these girls with their hair skimmed back and their demure black dresses just makes me uncomfortable, remembering the dead woman dressed in the exact outfit not long ago. Same woman we found swinging from the chandelier of this very room.
My frown becomes a scowl.
No one looks like they’re over the age of forty-five here except for one wrinkled little man in breeches. Montero identified him as the stableman—how weird is having a stableman in the twenty-first century?—but when you have the money...
I sweep them all with hard looks, thumbs hooked in the belt loops of my uniform pants, then turn my head over my shoulder to Montero.