Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
Twenty minutes later we stand in the kitchen with Haven, and my heart is still racing from what we just did. I’m putting my dishes away in the sink when I notice something through the window. It looks over the backyard where the bonfire was held last night, and I see a uniformed officer standing there along with Rad and Arsen. They’re all talking peacefully, or rather the cop is talking to Arsen, but something about how the cop is looking at him has me all on alert.
I feel Haven stop beside me and say, “That’s his parole officer.”
I look at her to find she’s witnessing the same scene as me. “But didn’t he go see him yesterday?”
“He did.”
“So then, what’s he doing here now?”
She shrugs. “They can visit anytime. It’s within their legal rights.” Then, sighing, “But I have a feeling he’s going to be checking in on him more often than he usually does with his other parolees.”
My heart clenches when I realize why. “Turners.”
She looks at me and smiles sadly. “Yes. They won’t let him be in peace now that he’s out.” She adds, muttering, “God, I so want this to be over for him.”
Me, too, because Haven is right. Just like him, the Turners won’t let this go either. So I really need to do something and do it soon.
THE TURNERS ARE the family of golden children. Blond hair and blue eyes. And Brecken Turner is no exception.
He sits behind his desk in the glass-walled conference room, his body stiff. Those blue eyes of his, much like his sister’s, are narrowed into slits and on me. He was in the middle of a meeting when we walked in, me and Rad, and he understandably wasn’t really happy about it.
Me neither.
I don’t want to be stuck in a town packed with concrete buildings, much less in one such building crawling with people, much much less in a room where the same people have sucked out the very air. Even though they cleared out pretty quick, their smell and body heat still remain, and I can’t wait to get out of here.
“How did you get past security?” he asks, his tone sharp, the syllables crisp.
While most of the assholes in Montana want to be a cowboy, there are a few exceptions. Like Brecken. He’s the rare breed who wears suits and hires people to do his dirty work for him. Kinda like my own brother, but at least Marsden was a cowboy first before he became a landowner. He knows the land he owns, unlike Brecken.
I take a deep breath. “If I tell you, I may have to kill you.”
A keening sound fills the room at my words, and I look to my right: Hank Turner.
Last time I saw him, he was lying on the ground in his front yard where I dragged him out of his bedroom. His face was smashed in and his body was covered in blood. He was half dead and barely recognizable.
Sitting here in a wheelchair, he still looks the same today. He’s lost much of his weight, and his shoulders are hunched. There are tubes sticking out of his nose and his throat, and he looks like he’s going to drop dead any second. The only reason he doesn’t is because there’s still venom lurking in his eyes that’s directed toward me.
I broke twenty-seven bones in his body that night. They had to keep him in the hospital for over six months. I was already in prison by the time he got out, my trial and sentencing completed at an expedited pace. Not that I care about that. All I care about is that they had to reconstruct his jaw, but there was no saving his larynx. I crushed it too bad and damaged it permanently. Along with paralyzing the fucker for the rest of his life.
So now he has to pee in a bag and shit in a pan. And do this thing called esophageal speech. Where, apparently, you produce sounds using the muscles of your esophagus. I didn’t know what it meant until I looked it up. I’m not gonna lie, it gives me great satisfaction in knowing I took away his voice when he was the one responsible for fucking with Rad all those years ago. Sometimes the universe can really be poetic.
Looking away from the pathetic waste of space, I focus on his son. “And I’m not here for that.”
Brecken looks at me for a beat before glancing over to Rad, who as always has picked a corner spot to stand in with his arms folded and his eyes hidden beneath the brim of his hat. Coming back to me, Brecken says, “You’re not supposed to be here. I’m sure your parole officer told you that.”
He did. It’s one of the conditions of my parole. Stay away from the defendant I beat up with a branding iron.