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)
Of course, he walked up to me, bought me drinks, took a real strong interest.
Maybe he’d have done that for any half-attractive woman who was new in town. No doubt he’s a flirt, with plenty of confidence, oodles of swagger. I swallow, stop myself from thinking of him like that—the way his lips fluttered over my ear, the look of excitement on his face when I walked into the men’s room.
I slept with Noah Sawyer.
I was about to go home with Mr. Sawyer’s son.
The son of the man I killed . . .
It’s revolting to think that monster even had a child.
But what if Noah knows?
What if Noah is Hannah?
He said he was a writer . . .
I blow out a deep breath and roll off the side of the bed. I can’t lie here and do this anymore. I’m still nowhere near ready to sleep after what almost happened earlier. It feels like I might be awake for days, I’m so wired. The drinks I had at the bar have long worn off. Finding out Noah’s last name shocked me into instant sobriety.
My gaze finds my suitcase. My flight home is Saturday, but maybe I can get one tomorrow instead. Or today, rather, since it’s long past midnight. I hate to leave my mother right now, but I need to be back at work next week anyway, and really, she doesn’t want me here. Plus, I’m no use to her when I’m on edge, spiraling out of control. I’m paranoid, sure everyone’s involved in whatever the hell is going on—Noah, Mom, the freaking priest, Ivy, even Chief Unger. If I stay here much longer, half the town will be suspects. I should get a list going. I could title it “People I Think Want to Ruin My Life.”
I need coffee. Coffee will wake me up from this awful foggy haze I’m stuck in.
I walk out into the kitchen, and the smell hits me. Sour, mildew, decay—both of this house and of human life. My mother is dying. I swallow and lift the old silver percolator that my mom has used since I was a kid, and a rush of emotion hits me again. It seems to come in waves. I haven’t cried yet. And I think it’s because none of my feelings are pure. Sadness about my mother’s health is mixed with resentment. Guilt for not being here is mingled with anger that she doesn’t want me to be. It’s exhausting, yet I can’t sleep.
I scoop grinds into the old pot, fill it with water, look around as I wait for it to percolate. The floors have a layer of dirt on them, and the sink is stained with yellow scum. Both need bleach and scrubbing. Maybe I can get someone in here to help Mom. She’d probably say it’s a waste of money, that she doesn’t need my help. Perhaps I could ask the church to say it’s their doing, and give them the money for a cleaning company and an aide. I have a decent amount in my savings. Though . . . that would mean talking to Father Preston, wouldn’t it? Random thoughts rattle around in my head as the smell of coffee floats through the kitchen.
A few minutes later, with my caffeine in hand, I go back to the tiny bedroom. I toss my suitcase on the bed, pull out a clean outfit, and begin folding shirts and pants, shoving everything inside. I’ll take a quick shower, and then I can pack my toiletries and call the airline—
A thud stops me.
I let a shoe fall from my fingers and turn to look over my shoulder and listen. Silence.
“Mom?” I call.
Nothing.
I almost ignore it—probably she drank herself to sleep, and the bottle tumbled from her hand. But it was too loud of a clunk, bigger than a bottle.
“Mom?” This time, I walk into the hall so my voice carries. Again, there’s no response. My heart begins to pound faster in my chest. “Hello?” I step hesitantly back toward the kitchen. I see her foot first. A white cotton sock with a hole in the heel, worn to nothing.
“Mom!” I’m on my knees beside her in the next second, touching her gray face, fingers feeling for a pulse. At first, there’s nothing—just hot, fevered skin—at least she’s not ice-cold—but then I find it. A slow, steady thump, thump, thump. Her eyes are shut; her mouth gapes open. Her hand twitches, at least a sign of life.
She . . . fell? I feel my forehead wrinkle in a frown. She’s probably drunk. Of course she fell. Then I see the blood trickling from the back of her head. Shit.
I scramble back to the bedroom, search all over for my cell phone before finding it in my pocket, and dial 911.