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)
When it looks like the sheriff’s going to say something, I dig my nails into his arm and keep going, my voice even louder than before: “Two days ago in Bozeman. H-he drugged me, okay? And then h-he put me in the trunk of his car. Look”—I show him the marks on my wrists—“he tied me up. With ropes. I have evidence. And then he brought me here. He said he…”
“Come with me.”
This is from the sheriff.
Even though I’m hyperventilating and dizzy, I can still make out the concern on his face and also in his tone. And it’s so relieving, this reaction, that I almost burst into tears. I almost crumple down to the floor.
I don’t, though.
I hold on to the sheriff—Cooper, his nameplate says—even harder. “Please, I want to go home. Just…”
“Let’s go,” he says and begins walking.
And since I still haven’t let go of his arm and my fingers have a death grip on his sleeve, I go with him. The corridor we’re making our way through is crowded. It has people coming and going, men with uniforms everywhere. This has to be the safest place or the second-most-safe place other than the police station, right? There’s cops all over. I mean, they can stop him, can’t they? Sheriff Cooper, even though shorter and stockier in build, can stop him and that shooter friend of his.
On that thought, Sheriff Cooper stops at a door and enters.
It’s an unoccupied office; the space is dominated by a giant desk, and the room holds a few other things I have no hope of paying attention to. I also do not have any hope of keeping it together and not jumping practically a mile when Sheriff Cooper abruptly stops, spins around, and thunders, “What the fuck?” He stabs his finger over my shoulder and keeps going: “I thought you had it under control.”
I go still at his words.
I watch Sheriff Cooper’s mouth open and his angry face contorting as he continues, “What, you’ve got nothing to say? She almost got us caught back there.” Leaning forward, he warns, “You got any idea the favors I had to call in to get your fucking license?” He shakes his head. “Should’ve said no the moment you called. I knew this whole Grayson-Turner bullshit would land me in a world of trouble one day.” He stabs his finger again. “You listen to me, Arsen, if this comes back to me, I’m gonna lose my badge. Hell, I’m gonna lose my life and I ain’t fucking dying for no one, you hear me? Not even for a Grayson. No matter how much goddamn money you throw at me.”
As soon as the sheriff finishes, a click echoes in the room.
It’s the office door closing and it’s mostly soft, especially after the tirade by the sheriff. Still, it serves as a wake-up call. It’s not as if I hadn’t been able to figure it out; I was slow figuring things out in the car, but this I got the moment the sheriff opened his mouth. But now that the door’s been closed, and I’m trapped inside with not one but two people, two people who mean me harm, my body is catching up, and I slowly turn around.
His presence hits me like a sucker punch.
He stands by the door, almost covering it, blocking the only way out of this room with his large body. And this time, I don’t have to wonder about his eyes being hidden by his cap. They’re fully visible, and if the eyes are the window to the soul, his soul must be pitch-black. Again, in a way that goes beyond the color and into the depths of a bottomless pit.
A fiery pit.
I follow his stare and find that it’s glued to my hand. My fingers that are still clutching the sheriff’s sleeve, and as soon as I realize that, I jerk away. And as if my fingers on the sheriff’s arm were holding his stare hostage, his eyes snap away as well and come back to me.
“You…” I breathe out, my teeth chattering and chills running up and down my back. “He’s w-with… you. He’s… I should’ve known—”
“You shut the fuck up,” Sheriff Cooper snaps at me, making me jump, and this time, he’s the one who grabs my arm and does it so painfully that I gasp. “One more word outta your mouth and I’m gonna—”
His words are swallowed up then.
No, actually I think his words are being crushed right in his throat. By the very hand that was wrapped around my throat only a few hours ago. I was so terrified back then, but now I realize I probably shouldn’t have been. Because the grip he had on me was not even close to the grip he has on the sheriff.