Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
I look away, not wanting to meet his eyes. But when I glance to my left, a statue catches my attention. That was not here twenty years ago. The taste of bile rushes up from my stomach, yet somehow I keep putting one foot in front of the other.
Father Preston stands when I arrive at the pew they’ve been seated in. “Elizabeth. It’s wonderful to see you.”
I point back to the statue. “Is that new?”
“Saint Agnes? Why, yes it is.” He smiles. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“When did you get it?”
“A parishioner donated it about a year ago, I think.”
“What parishioner?”
His brows furrow. “It was an anonymous donation. Why do you ask?”
Another coincidence? How can one little town be filled with so many?
I look back at the statue, and cold seeps into my body. It’s probably still ninety outside, and the church doesn’t have air-conditioning, so it means one thing—a panic attack is coming. I need to get the hell out of here quick.
My mother still hasn’t acknowledged me. Her head is bowed like she’s full of shame. I thought this was the place you came to get rid of that stuff. “Mom . . .”
She turns. The change in her position lets me see there’s something in her hand. I take a step closer, squint for a better look.
Drinking
Fornication
I close my eyes. Her sin list. No wonder it’s taken so long. Mom traces my line of sight and pulls the paper tight to her chest so I can’t see it. Which makes me wonder—what else is on there? I should’ve read the entire thing when I had the chance earlier. Is she here to confess just her sins? Or does she feel the need to rat out everything she believes is a crime against the Lord, even if the sins don’t belong to her?
“What can I get you?”
The bartender, a woman who looks barely old enough to drink, slaps a napkin in front of me. She might be young, but she fills out the half shirt she’s wearing pretty damn well. I guess that’s more important in a place like this.
“I’ll take a whiskey. Macallan Double Cask, if you have it.”
Her lip twitches. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
I shake my head. “Not anymore. I take it that means you don’t have Macallan?”
“No, we don’t.”
“What type of whiskey do you have?”
“We got Hendrick’s.”
I don’t bother to inform her that Hendrick’s is gin, not whiskey. I’d drink rubbing alcohol at this point. “I’ll take that. Thanks.”
While Miss Half Shirt searches for the bottle, I take out my Amex and put it on the bar, then look around. This place was a boarded-up bar when I was a kid. I can’t remember what it was called back then, but it definitely wasn’t Liars Pub. It’s a typical hole in the wall—dark so the patrons can’t see the glasses aren’t clean, wobbly wooden stools that need cushions, and a back room with two dartboards and a worn pool table. A guy with a mullet and a receding hairline leans over with a cue stick to take a shot. He catches my eye and proffers a leering smile. I turn away quickly, hoping he won’t think my glancing around is an invitation.
I knock back my first drink within minutes of it being served. It burns as it slides down my throat, worms its way into my belly. I appreciate the occasional cocktail and wine with dinner, but rarely do I allow myself to get drunk. Tonight, I plan on making an exception. It can’t be more than a mile walk to Mom’s. My rental car can stay in the parking lot overnight. Raising my hand, I call over the bartender.
“You want another?” she asks.
“Please.”
A voice behind me catches me off guard. “Put hers on my tab, please, Willow.”
I expect to find the mullet man when I turn, but I’m pleasantly surprised. Instead, there’s a tall, handsome—albeit too young for me—man with a deliciously crooked smile. That smile widens, unveiling a set of cavernous dimples. Oh my.
“You are definitely not from around here,” he drawls.
I swivel and face him for a better look. “Oh yeah? Why is that?”
“Because the girls from these parts drink one of three things: White Claws, High Noons, or Jack and Coke. And the third I keep away from because that means they’re going to wind up sloppy drunk.”
“I suppose the reason I don’t drink any of those is because I’m a woman, not a girl.”
Dimples looks me up and down. There’s a sparkle in his eyes when they meet mine. “You sure are.”
I chuckle. He’s corny and over the top, but something about him appeals to me. It could be the confidence. There’s nothing I’m drawn to more than a confident man. Which is why Sam isn’t the first cop I’ve dated.