Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 98755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Because it’s only a matter of time.
CHAPTER 29
Hope
I dropped the box at his apartment last week, and I haven’t heard from him since. The package hasn’t been sent back, and he hasn’t even so much as returned to the café. I thought I’d be fucking elated when he stopped popping up where I was, but instead, I’m seriously pissed off. Is he giving me the silent treatment or something?
Fuck him. Who cares? If anything, it’s reminded me to harden my resolve about killing the fucker.
I watched the news last night. There was another murder, and the image of the body had already come through on my burner phone. This time, the man was stabbed multiple times in his home. The police allegedly have not yet been able to identify the culprit, but it’s assumed to be the unnamed serial killer.
My eyes lit up when I saw all the red, bleeding holes, and my hands itched to replicate them in glass. That’s what I’ll be working on next, and hopefully, it’ll help me purge this building rage.
I almost lose track of time in my studio until my agent calls me to let me know she’s getting her hair done for tonight’s event, and she hopes I’m in the process of getting ready. I lie, of course, then hightail it out of my studio and back home to get ready.
I’m certain my mom will be home at this time. We’re not usually home at the same time, and my mother once made a joke that I work the same schedule as my father. It’s usually early in the morning when I get home, and I sleep most of the day and then go back out and do it again. I know it’s not a healthy habit to be working most of the night, but it just seems to be when I’m the most creative. And I don’t want to stop that just yet, especially when it keeps me productive and feeling less stabby.
I search through my mother’s closet to find another purple dress. Just because Kylie told me not to wear the same thing again—I’m going to fucking do it. Kylie always wears black; she thinks it’s professional, I guess, so she’s going to shun away from anything that might bleed some color into her bitter soul. I find a dress that is very close in color to the last one and do my hair in a similar style to how I had it done last week, but this time, I pair it with silver heels.
“You working tonight?” Mom asks as she sits on my bed.
“Hey, Mom.” I give her an awkward hug, as the dress is only half zipped up. I was hoping I’d see her before I left, but she wasn’t here when I first arrived.
Her gaze scans my room, her expression going soft as she takes in the pale pink feature wall, the small balcony that overlooks the courtyard, and the pictures I have tacked to a board next to my vanity table.
“Yes. It’s going to be a long night,” I admit as I try to get the dress zipped the rest of the way. She laughs and beckons me over to help me. I have a similar curvaceous shape to my mother. I’m glad she taught me to embrace it at a young age.
“Can I come?” she asks.
I turn to look at her. It’s strange that she’s asking. I don’t usually like my parents coming to my work events because I don’t want people to think I got to where I am today just because my mother is famous. After all, that’s the furthest thing from the truth. And my father intimidates full-grown men just by looking at them. I’ve asked nicely that they don’t attend, and they’re happy to go along with my request as long as I make pieces for them in return. My sculptures are placed all throughout the house, and the moment a new guest walks through the door, my mother shamelessly brags that her daughter created them. The guests are always polite, even when they didn’t ask about them. It’s like a slow torture and rite of passage into our home. At least that’s what my father and I joke about since it’s rarely us bringing someone new to our home.
“Maybe next time?” I say quietly, a small pebble of guilt sinking into my stomach. If Kylie weren’t going to be at this event, I probably would let her come. But Kylie already has it out for me; if she finds out who my parents are, it’ll just make her dig her heels in even farther.
“Yes, of course,” she chirps, as if unfazed by the subtle rejection. I feel bad, and I know she’s feeling sentimental about something, or she wouldn’t be looking around my room like that. I sit beside her and grab her hand.