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)
I feel him stiffen behind me, but I don’t let it stop me now because I need to get this out. All of it. Every little piece of my sordid history.
“Which is so crazy because I always thought that the man who saved me and my mother could never be like my daddy. You’re that man. You saved me. Eight years ago, we left the ranch because someone broke in, in the dead of the night. Someone in a mask. He tried to kill Mr. Turner and so they said it wasn’t safe for us to live there anymore. They took us away and I was so happy because I thought we’d finally be safe. That finally my daddy wouldn’t get to us. But I was wrong.”
I think I feel both his arms going around me at this, but again, I don’t let it deter me because I need to get this out. “He did get to us, to her. He pushed her down the stairs. I saw it. They were arguing about something like they always would and I saw him push her. I tell people I wasn’t home the night my mom died. I tell them it was probably an accident that she fell down the stairs. But it wasn’t. I was there. I was hiding behind the couch because I thought he was going to come for me. But he didn’t. He left. He saw her go down. He stood before her bleeding body and then he left. And I… I never thought you’d be like him. I never thought that the man who saved me eight years ago would kill me one day. You’re going to kill me now, aren’t you? Because I’m not who you thought I was. I’m not a Turner. So can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
I hear him say it in a ragged whisper, and I ask the question I’ve been dying to ask. “What’s her name?”
I don’t have to tell him who I’m talking about, and I don’t know how much time passes before I hear, “Annie.”
I smile slightly, my head too heavy for my neck now. “That’s pretty. She’s lucky. That you love her so much to do this for her.”
“I made a promise.”
I nod, my head lolling now, grazing my outstretched arms. “Can you make me a promise too?”
He grasps the back of my neck to give it support and repeats, “Anything.”
“Promise that when you kill me, you’ll make it quick. I don’t want to lie in a hospital bed, in a coma for days before they pull the plug. Like my mother did. So promise me you’ll kill me right away so it doesn’t hurt. So it doesn’t…”
I forget what I was going to say. Probably because my body gives in and I sag against him. The last thing I remember before I float away is him cutting the rope up above and bringing my limp arms down. Before picking me up off the ground and winding his arms around me so tightly that for the first time in my life, I feel safe.
Even from him.
To: Peyton Turner
From: Bo Porter
Peyton,
I’ve never beaten around the bush before and I’m not going to start now. In fact, I’ve been blunt with you to the point of being an asshole. So before I say anything to you, I want you to know that I’ve been granted parole.
I’m getting out Friday.
My hearing was last week and I admit I should’ve told you. I didn’t because I’m an asshole. Because I know this is just a dream for you. A fantasy on paper. A safe way to have an adventure. The felon you’ve been writing to suddenly on the other side of the bars is the opposite of that.
I get it. I also get that what I’m about to say is probably the last thing I should say to you. If someone else had said this to you, I’d tell you to run. Or call the cops. I’d tell you to tear his letter into pieces and never write back.
But I have to.
I will be at the university cafe, next Tuesday at 11AM (around the same time I usually get your letters on the inside). I’ll order a cup of coffee, and I’ll find a seat in the direct view of the entrance. I’ll sit there for an hour, until the clock strikes twelve, looking at the door, hoping to see a girl come in wearing a white dress.
I’m telling you this because I want that girl to be you. The girl who filled my lonely days with her words.
Bo
PART II
I SEE IT before we get there.
Rawhide. The Grayson ranch.
Written in white on a hanging sign made of dark wood. The words are flanked by a fancy R on both sides, just like the one on the cap he wears. It looks old, the sign, with cracks running through the wood, creeping into the painted letters. Like it’s been here for years, decades. Maybe that’s why it looks so grand despite those little dents and chips. For its tenacity to keep standing year after year.