Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 27969 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 140(@200wpm)___ 112(@250wpm)___ 93(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27969 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 140(@200wpm)___ 112(@250wpm)___ 93(@300wpm)
"9-1-1, where is your emergency?"
"My neighbor has someone chained up in his basement!" I cry.
"Uh…can you repeat that?"
"Um, I think my neighbor has someone chained up in his basement," I hiss into the phone, my face pressed to the glass. There's no movement from his house, but there's definitely still screaming. "Someone is screaming for help. They're also screaming murder."
"Oh, wow. Okay. What's the address?"
"My address is 2121 Morning Glory. He lives right beside me in Leticia Marrow's house, the blue one."
"Have you seen anything?"
"No. I just heard screaming."
"How long ago?"
"Twenty seconds?"
"I'm sending officers now," the dispatcher says. "I want you to stay on the line with me, let me know if you see or hear anything else."
"O-okay," I whisper, sinking into the chair because my damn legs feel like they're going to collapse.
"Do you know who your neighbor is?"
"Mason Hudson. He says that he's Letty's nephew. He just moved in last weekend."
"What does he look like?"
"Sex on legs." Shit. That's not what I meant to say. "Um, I mean, he's maybe 6'4" with dark hair, a beard, and crazy blue eyes. He looks like a hot lumberjack."
"A hot lumberjack," the dispatcher says with a surprised chuckle. "Uh, got it. Do you know if he has any weapons?"
"I mean, he's probably a serial killer, so he probably has all kinds of serial killer weapons," I mutter. "They usually have kits, right? I bet he has one of those."
"Have you ever seen him with any weapons?"
"No." I pause. "But he did buy the Serial Killer's Guide to Love by Darcy Quinn at the bookstore, which is all kinds of suspicious, honestly. Oh, and he asked me to help him find this one book about a man who had a woman chained to his bed. He's probably using them for inspiration."
"The bookstore?"
"Yeah, the Book of Love. He's been following me there."
"He's following you?"
"Yes? No? I mean, maybe?" I huff out a breath. "I mean, it's suspicious that he comes to the bookstore only when I'm there, right?"
"Ah…"
"And then he asked me out. Who does that?"
"He followed you to the bookstore and then asked you out?"
"Yes?"
"And now you think he has someone chained up in his house?" the dispatcher asks.
Her tone implies that I'm the one in need of serious intervention here, but I heard what I heard. I could give him a pass on the books. We listen, and we don't judge. But we absolutely judge when someone is screaming in your house after you bought those books and you're following your neighbor. The totality of the evidence does not point to rainbows and butterflies. It points to axe murder and mayhem.
"Are the police coming?" I ask.
"Yes, ma'am. Can I get your name?"
"Olive Medlock."
"Thank you, Ms. Medlock. I'll have an officer make contact with you."
"I thought you needed me to stay on the phone."
"Oh, that won't be necessary," she says. "But please feel free to call back if you see anything suspicious."
Great. She thinks I'm making it up. Awesome.
"Thanks," I mutter, hanging up with a sigh. Maybe I am just being ridiculous and imagining things because my history with men and dating is pathetically awful. But…
"Help! Help! Murder!"
"No," I growl, squaring my shoulders. "I'm not imagining it."
It takes ten minutes before a squad car parks outside of Mason's place. I watch through my window as two officers approach the house. Whoever is inside has stopped screaming.
At least right up until the officers are on the doorstep.
"Murder! Murder! Help! This is murder!"
The sound is muffled from here. I don't think it's muffled from there because a second later, they're pounding on his door, demanding that he open it.
I hold my breath, my heart pounding when his bedroom light immediately flicks on. I'm not sure I breathe at all for the next ten minutes. The screaming keeps coming, though.
"What the fuck?" I press my face to the glass, gaping when the officers reappear in his yard, laughing. He's behind them, shirtless, rumpled…not in handcuffs.
His gaze drifts toward my place.
I duck, praying he didn't see me in the window. I kind of doubt luck is on my side, though. The smirk on his lips says it isn't.
"Crap," I whisper. What the fuck is happening? Why isn't he in handcuffs? The police usually put murderers in handcuffs, right? I know we don't get a lot of crazy murderers around here, but surely the rules aren't that different here than they are anywhere else.
"Sorry for the inconvenience, Mr. Hudson. You have a good nice."
"Not a problem," Mason rumbles.
"What the fuck?" I whisper again.
But I don't have to wonder what's going on for long.
Not even sixty seconds later, my doorbell rings.
If he didn't already know that I called, he definitely does now.
This is bad. This is so bad.
I stumble toward the living room on wooden legs, confirming through the peephole that the police are standing on my stoop. I quickly smooth my shirt down and then unlock the door.