Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 53212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 266(@200wpm)___ 213(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 53212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 266(@200wpm)___ 213(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
After I manage to submit the twenty federal filings Martin has signed off on so far today, I step out of the office to grab a sandwich from my favorite deli a few blocks away.
The streets are slushed from a mid-March snow and ruthlessly cold weather, so I head for my car down the block instead of making the walk—since there’s no way I can finish the workday with wet feet. A dark SUV creeps along the curb behind me, likely looking for a spot to park with all the snowbanks, and I glance over my shoulder every so often to see if they succeed. They’re still idling when I return to the office—chicken salad sandwich in tow—before finally speeding off through the light and around the corner as I enter the small parking lot reserved for employees of Feldman CPA.
There are several empty spots on the street—I see that now—and a weird tingling sense of unease washes over me.
Boston traffic is a nightmare, I tell myself, brushing it off. And it’s probably not even the same SUV. Pretty sure everyone and their mother drive blacked-out Escalades around here.
I stay busy at the office until a little after seven, when Martin decides it’s time for us to go home, eat dinner, cry in the shower, and get some sleep—his real instructions at quitting time every day, by the way.
It’s another forty minutes before I get home because living in Boston city center is way out of my price range. And I’m barely through the door—haven’t even laid eyes on Alyssa—when my phone starts ringing. I half expect it to be Martin with a new take on postmortem care, but it’s my grandmother’s name on the screen.
“Hey, Gammy,” I greet nonchalantly—as though I haven’t been avoiding her or her request to get together for the last two days with Olympic-level agility. “How’s it going?”
Guilt niggles slightly as she pauses. Normally, she’s ready to dive into some kind of gossip right out of the gate, and if she’s not, I can only imagine it’s because she’s feeling annoyed with me.
“Gam, I’m sorry—”
“Are you okay?” she cuts me off.
My chin jerks to my chest in surprise. “Uh…yeah…I mean.” I shrug to myself. “It’s tax season, so I’m not okay, but I’m okay at the same time, you know?” I snort. “I’m surviving.”
Another pause. “I know work’s busy this time of year, Kyky. I mean everything else. You’re sleeping okay? Eating enough? Feeling…safe?”
I frown as I toe off my heels, the SUV from earlier today ushering unbidden anxiety into my mind. “Safe? Gammy…you’re starting to make me feel like things aren’t supposed to be okay. What’s going on?”
“I can’t do this over the phone,” she says gently. “I just need to see you.”
I glance at the clock. “You live forty-five minutes away. I’ve been working twelve-hour days six days a week.”
“I know,” she says. “But I never get to see you, and this is important. Don’t you miss me?”
I roll my eyes. Grandmothers really have a special gift for charging every single encounter with guilt.
“Gammy.” I close my eyes, feeling torn in twenty directions with no stretchy flesh to give. “That’s not fair. You know I miss you.”
“Life isn’t fair, baby,” she counters. “It’s fast and furious and complicated in a thousand different ways. Come tomorrow, after work, doesn’t matter how late. I’ll make pot roast—your favorite and it can sit for hours.”
I sigh. “You play dirty.”
“See you tomorrow night, sweetheart,” she says cheerfully, hanging up before I can argue.
I stand there for a moment, phone in hand, considering the implications of my grandmother’s pushing. Either something serious is going on or I need to set parental controls on her TV. Fast and furious? Am I safe? I need to block Vin Diesel and true crime, like, yesterday.
Still, I don’t think I can make it there tomorrow night without chancing a full-on mental breakdown, no matter how badly she wants me to.
Ugh. Whatever.
Tonight, I’m choosing peace. Tomorrow morning, I’ll break the news of my continued absence and then set my phone to silent.
A disturbing visual of my roommate Alyssa, sprawled out with one leg on the back of the couch and the other draped off the edge with both hands in a bowl of cheeseballs, is the first thing I see upon exiting the kitchen.
Her laptop is closed on the coffee table, her shirt covered in orange dust, and her red hair is in a messy bun that signals the end of her latest academic ordeal. She’s not a simple, happy girl when she’s under the gun—but rather a stressed-out, soul-siphoning metaphorical demon—and the fall into relief afterward often looks apocalyptic.
“What’s your status? Can I assume by the junk-food-indulging-bowl-of-balls that you’re finished?”
“Freedom, baby,” she declares, stretching and sitting up to set the bowl on top of her computer. “My paper is submitted, I am officially brain-dead, and thankfully, I don’t need to worry about the next butt-puckering assignment for another three to five business days.”