Total pages in book: 142
Estimated words: 136507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Logan grunts as he reaches for another stack of paper to burn.
The corner of the Toronto Star peeks out. “Wait, not that.” I slide the newspaper from his grip and tuck it under my arm. “I still want to look through it.” Isla showed up and all else was forgotten.
“I don’t think it’s anything. It just got tossed in with the clutter.” Logan breaks down the cardboard box and drops it into the fire, anchoring it all with a chunk of wood. “Hank’s probably full of shit and bitter that Ian trusted Jay more than he obviously trusted him.”
“I don’t want to believe that.” It makes the whole ordeal with Travis Dorsey and the added years to Logan’s sentence an even bigger pill to swallow.
And it makes Hank’s continued lurking and threats all the more concerning because when will they end? When he’s locked away, I suppose.
“You want to head back in?” I ask.
“To that?” He nods toward the main house, packed and brimming with life, the windows cracked for fresh air to flow in and laughter and music and overtired children’s screams out. “Hell no. I was done about two hours ago. Come on.” He guides me away from the fire’s warmth and the rink, following a narrow path that leads to the garage.
We fall into step quietly as we round the corner and duck inside.
The second the door shuts, my back is against the wall and Logan’s overwhelming size is pressed against me, his mouth claiming mine.
Chapter 37
Logan
February
“That groundhog is saying an early spring.” Mrs. Powell leans against her small porch, watching me shovel snow off her steps. “Don’t know if I believe it.”
“Sure doesn’t seem like it.” I pause to regain my breath and assess. We had another dump of snow three nights ago, and as expected, Mrs. Powell’s son could not make the trip up to help her, so Sarah dropped me off with the snowblower and left to deliver a few nearby orders. Every news station has been touting record-breaking temperature lows and snowfalls this year, and while I haven’t been around to compare, I believe it. If I’m not out in the fields, dropping bales of hay for the hungry bison, I’m moving snow in wind chills that burn exposed skin. “At least it’s warmer today.” And sunny.
And it’s the third time I’ve cleared her entire driveway.
Each time, she’s there to watch me. This time, though, she’s not hiding behind her storm door.
“Practically pleasant. Who needs Florida?”
“I don’t know. I think I could use a palm tree or two.” I abandon my shovel and reach for the bucket of rock salt. I’ve never been to Florida. Never seen a palm tree in real life. I guess I’ll never get to go, not with my record. I try not to let these kinds of thoughts weigh on me, but sometimes they do.
“Say, has there been any news about that missing girl? Holly Monroe?” Mrs. Powell asks.
It’s a question asked often. My mother’s church prays for her every Sunday. No one has forgotten about her—least of all Emery or Isla.
I shake my head. “Nothing new from what I’ve heard.” And I probably hear more than I should.
“I don’t see how she could be alive at this point.” She tsks. “What a shame.”
Our Landry truck pulls into the driveway then, and Sarah eases out of the driver’s seat with great difficulty, thanks to her ever-expanding belly. “Morning, Mrs. Powell.” She waddles forward with a paper bag, her winter coat hanging open. “Looks like you’re all set.”
“Goodness. You’re going to get sick!” the old woman scolds.
Sarah waves off her concerns. “My coat doesn’t do up anymore.”
“When are you due?”
“Officially, May.” She pauses at the bottom of the steps, sizing them up as if eyeing a mountain.
“Here.” I take the bag from her and ease up to hand it off to the elderly lady.
“Thank you, Logan.” Mrs. Powell smiles, and it actually reaches her eyes. “I appreciate this.”
“No problem.”
“We’ll have those pot pies for you next time.” Sarah gives a half wave as she waddles back to the passenger side, her hand on her side. It’s unusual. She’s normally good for a few minutes of conversation with each customer.
I grab the shovel and nod at Mrs. Powell before trailing my sister. “You okay?”
“Sure. Great.” She struggles to hoist herself back in.
I make quick work of loading the snowblower into the back and then hop into the driver’s side. “Seriously, Sarah, are you sure you’re okay? ’Cause you look like shit.” Her face has gone ashen.
“Yeah, I lied,” Sarah says through pants. “I’m going to need you to drive me to the hospital and then call Jon.”
“I don’t know how she’s going to do it.”
“Hmm?” My eyes are glazed over, unfocused.
Emery crawls up my body to straddle my waist. “Sarah, on bedrest.”