Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 111537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
I half expect to hear a scream, but there’s nothing. I rush to the window and look down, waiting, but Brandon doesn’t move. My heart starts to pound. He’s barely recovered from a concussion and now he’s just fallen out of a second-story window. What if he escaped torture only to die by falling out of a window? Suddenly, I hear a long drawn-out groan, and I let out a breath of relief. Brandon rolls off the bush and slowly climbs to his feet, clutching at his rips. He looks up and gives me a wave. I guess it wasn’t that big of a drop.
I run to the dresser and grab my cell phone, sticking it in my pocket. Then I lean out the window, sliding one foot after another out into the fresh air. I’m hanging on with my fingernails, terrified of what I’m about to do. I close my eyes and let go. The ground rushes up immediately, slamming into my feet. The bushes scratch my legs as I roll free. After a few seconds, the tingling goes away and I’m fine.
“Good?” Brandon asks.
“I’m good,” I say. “Are you?”
“I’ve been better,” he responds with a grunt. “But I survived the fall.”
“It really wasn’t that bad,” I observe.
“Now what?” he asks, glancing around.
We’re at the back of the house, looking out at the garden. The garage with all of Francisco’s cars is to our right.
“This way,” I say, leading my brother toward the garage.
As we approach the building, I can see a guard sitting just outside the door. He hasn’t spotted us yet, but if we stay where we are, he’s going to see us in a minute. I grab Brandon and pull him back behind the garage. This isn’t going to be easy. It’s like escaping a maximum security prison, and this is supposed to be my home.
My first thought is that we could just borrow a car and then return it. But if I have to explain myself to the guard, then he’s going to want to know where my bodyguard is. And they’ll go up the food chain until they arrive at my husband, who is going to want me to wait until he gets home.
Our other option is to scale the wall at the back of the property, and try to make it out to the road. But I’m not sure if Brandon can handle that. I’m a little bit surprised that he isn’t more shaken up after dropping from a second-story window.
“Here’s what I think,” I begin, laying out our options.
“Maybe there’s a door in the wall,” Brandon suggests.
“I don’t know,” I admit. I’ve been to this house dozens of times, but I haven’t actually lived here that long. And I haven’t taken the time to circumnavigate the backyard to see if there’s a door. “It’s worth a try.”
We ease our way back from the garage and scan the rose bushes. There are many levels in the garden, specifically designed to hide the wall. It’s for aesthetics, but maybe it’s also for security reasons.
I’m going to have to climb in there and go all the way back until I reach the wall, because I can’t see it from where I’m standing. I glance at Brandon and see that he’s come to the same conclusion. Very delicately, we pick our way through the thorns, careful not to disrupt any of the rosebuds. When we finally reach the wall, I can see it’s way too tall to climb.
But we’re in luck. As we duck under the branches of a forsythia bush, I trail my fingertips along the concrete, searching for an exit. There’s a groove and then a wooden panel, and that can only mean one thing: a door.
I push the branches aside to get a better view. The door is old, but the lock looks new. I try the handle and am forced to admit that there’s no way we can get through. Brandon moves me aside, crouching down so he can study the lock. I glance around anxiously, wondering if anyone is paying attention. I don’t see any guards in the backyard, but that doesn’t help. We’re stuck anyway.
Brandon pulls a knife out of his back pocket. I gape at him, wondering where the hell he got a knife. He shrugs as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Then I consider what just happened to us, and wonder why he wouldn’t be armed. Of course, he wants to protect himself.
Brandon fits the blade of the knife into the crack between the door and the wall. He jiggles the handle and after a bit of back and forth, manages to pop the door open. He grins at me, standing up with a slight wince. I can see he’s still in pain, and he’s doing his best to pretend he’s not. I wonder if I should just take him back around to the front of the house so that we can return to our respective bedrooms. Maybe a nap would be more appropriate than sneaking out to visit our father’s grave.