Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 86741 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86741 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
“Oh, what the fuck ever.” She stormed out of the kitchen.
“And what are you gonna do now, huh?” I asked, chasing after her. I found her in the mudroom, stuffing her arms into her coat. “You gonna scream and run off and throw a fucking tantrum like you always do?”
“No—I’m just going to run off and be fucking homeless, Mel! That’s what I’ll fucking do!”
“As if I’ll let you be homeless, Miley! Miley—just stop!” I caught her by the elbow before she could turn away, and gripped her upper arms. “Look at me!”
She breathed hard through her nostrils, staring me in the eyes. Sometimes I hated how alike we looked, because I saw that anger on her face and knew that was what I looked like when I got angry. Or sad. Or hurt.
“I’m not going to let you be homeless. But I also can’t let you stay here. I just . . . I can’t, okay? Things are good here. I don’t want to risk or ruin anything that I have going on.”
“Why? Because you don’t trust me?”
“Actually, no, I don’t.”
She grimaced and snatched her arms out of my hands. “Fuck this.”
I grabbed her again. “I’ll rent out an apartment for you instead.”
That caught her attention. She lifted her gaze back up to mine, the anger transforming to confusion.
“It’ll be close by and I’ll check on you every single day, but I swear to God if you fuck up even once, Miley, I will cut you off. Do you understand? I will kick you out and send you back to North Carolina so fast.”
“I won’t fuck up,” she countered quickly, and a smile formed on her lips. “I told you I’m better. I’m so much better. I just need some help getting on my feet. That’s all.”
I nodded, wanting to believe her, but feeling in my gut that she’d fuck this up one way or another.
Even so, I did what any good sister would do. I helped Miley get back on her feet. We found an apartment within the next two days, a studio with a mountain view.
For ten weeks, Miley was great. She’d found a job in town, paid all the bills except the rent, which I took care of for her, as it was kind of steep.
And as promised I checked on her every single day, but I didn’t tell Roland about it. Nor had I told him I even had a sister in town. Or about the apartment I purchased for her. None of it.
That was another mistake.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
I couldn’t help it. After the way the first journal ended, I took the second journal with me into the mansion. I hid it under the sofa in the room Roland called the relaxation room—the room I just found out was created by Melanie. It was a room where he came to unwind, meditate, and practice yoga, though since I’d moved in, I hardly saw him in there. That was a good thing because if he wasn’t going to use it, I definitely was.
A navy-blue suede sofa was perched against the wall across from the door, a Moroccan theme going with rugs and wall decor I didn’t care for, but there was something about the room that was relaxing in itself. Maybe it was the candles and the diffuser that automatically turned on when a person entered the room, pumping out eucalyptus in the morning or lavender at night, or maybe it was the oversized floor pillows that I didn’t mind sitting on.
Whatever it was, it was the perfect hideout. I had no idea if Roland knew about the journals, and I couldn’t read them in plain sight. I hated that I was even hiding it from him, but as I said before, there was a niggling at my conscience, something telling me to keep this little piece of discovery to myself for now, so I did.
After dinner with him, we went up to bed. He curled his large body around me, spooning me from behind and I sighed, clinging to his hand.
“I love you,” he rasped in my ear.
“Love you more,” I said back. But would a wife who loved her husband hide the fact that she was reading his dead wife’s journals?
I worried that he’d throw them away if he saw them and I’d never get to finish them. Or maybe I worried that he’d look at me differently for having read any of it at all.
Either way, it was too late to go back now, and as he fell asleep, I kept that in mind. Too late to turn back now. Too late to turn back now.
At two in the morning, Roland had rolled over to the other side of the bed, lightly snoring, and I climbed out of it, making my way to the relaxation room.