Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86629 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86629 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
“None of them matter.”
“How can that possibly be true? Connor, talk to me. You ran out on another woman. This is crazy.”
He says nothing and I want to scream.
Houses flit past as the car drifts further away from sanity. We get on the highway, the Mercedes purring like a cat. Connor changes lanes, slips between a truck and an SUV, hits the gas. I cling to the side panel, nose against the glass, trying to hold it together. Connor goes faster, like he’s trying to get us both killed.
Until he takes an exit, gliding down as the road curves and narrows, down into trees, through streets that don’t make sense, past houses I’ve never seen before in my life. We’re near the water and it’s like the whole neighborhood’s bending toward it. Massive stone structures, villas and Victorians, so different from what I grew up with. It feels like we’re in the rich suburbs, but we’re still in the city.
“What is this place?” I ask, annoyed with myself for not knowing. I grew up in New York and there are still areas I’ve never heard of.
“It’s called Malba. Small community. Not much out here. No bodegas, no cheap bars, none of that.”
“Rich people. That explains it.”
He grunts as the car slows and turns toward a massive stone-and-metal fence, pausing in front of a gate. Connor taps a code into a pad and the gate rolls back, giving me the first glimpse of my future.
The house is enormous. I’ve never seen anything like it in the city before. It’s like we’re in Cape Cod or something. Multiple wings, trees all over, a driveway big enough to park ten cars or more, plus a huge detached garage with space for ten more. There’s a fountain but it’s dry and the concrete looks cracked. Weeds are growing in some of the flower beds, though the grass is cut and tidy.
Connor parks out front and kills the engine.
“This is the Maguire family home.” He says it like that should mean something.
“You live here?”
“I inherited this place ten years ago when I took over the business. I haven’t spent much time in this house though.”
“Why are we here?”
“Because it’s the most easily defensible place in the city.”
“Defensible? What does that even mean?”
He closes his eyes for a beat as if gathering himself and it’s like a different man shifts his body in my direction. “You will not cause trouble. You will be patient. Everything will make sense soon and all your needs will be met. But for now, you will sit tight. Do you understand me?”
“I don’t understand anything, Connor, and you’re freaking me out.”
“Get out of the car.” He pushes his door open and comes around to my side. I flinch away but he doesn’t hesitate to drag me along behind him. I stumble, forced to hurry to keep pace as he strides up steps toward a pair of massive double doors. A simple key unlocks a loud bolt and the smell of must and dust hits me as we step inside.
My mouth opens to complain when his hand clamps onto my wrist but I’m too busy taking in the place to say anything.
The entryway is huge with tall ceilings, a beautiful chandelier, and all hardwood floors. The molding looks original, dusty, but gorgeous. Some furniture is covered in white cloth. An oil painting of a boat on fire hangs on the wall. I want to stop and look, but Connor pulls me up the carpeted stairs.
“This is the East Wing,” he says, turning to the left and dragging me through another set of double doors which open on more hallways.
“How many rooms are there in this house?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never counted. Dozens at least. There’s the West Wing and the South Wing, and you will not be permitted to enter either of them.”
“Why not?” I catch glimpses of rooms through half-open doors, some of them empty, most of them with cloth-covered furniture standing like ghosts in haunted corners. “Seriously, does anyone live here?”
“You do.” He reaches the end of the hall and shoves open the doors to a sprawling bedroom.
It’s the first space that looks like it has been used in the last decade. A beautiful plush rug in front of a fireplace, a sitting area with surprisingly modern chairs and couches, and a truly massive bed against the far wall. There’s an en suite bathroom, fully updated, and a closet bigger than my bedroom back home.
“This is too much,” I say softly, feeling dizzy and overwhelmed. “I don’t want to be here, Connor. I want to be back home with my mom.”
“It’s not an option anymore.”
“When can I see her? She’s freaked out. I need to make sure she knows I’m okay.”
“I’ll message her tomorrow.”
“I need my toiletries, my clothes, all my things. Connor, you can’t just throw me in here—“