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)
The next day, I don’t wait for hours in the parking lot. I pull up, park, sip my third coffee of the day, and within minutes, Ivy’s walking toward my rental car. She strides purposefully, like she spotted me through the window and knows why I’m here. The sun beats down overhead, and I can see beads of sweat forming on her brow.
“What are you doing here?” she snaps after she climbs into the passenger seat. I hand her a coffee, which she rolls her eyes at. “You call me out of the blue after twenty years, then show up at my office and offer me a coffee, like we sit around and chitchat every day over a cup of Folgers?”
“Hello to you, too. Does that mean you don’t want it?”
She sighs. “I can’t drink coffee after two p.m. or I won’t sleep. Plus, it’s like a hundred degrees out.”
“Fine. I’ll drink it.” I drop it into the cup holder.
“Why are you here, Elizabeth?”
“You know why.”
“No, I don’t. I’ve given it a lot of thought, and it’s just a coincidence, and you’re paranoid. Now I don’t want to think about it anymore.”
I turn and glare at her. Last time we spoke, she seemed pretty convinced, what with the Saint Agnes pendant. But now I see the resolve in her eyes as she looks forward, refusing to meet my gaze. She doesn’t want it to be real, and so she’s decided it isn’t. As long as she sticks her head in the sand and continues her merry little life in the middle of nowhere Louisiana, she’ll be fine. Or so she’s convinced herself.
“Okay . . .” I reach into the back seat for my bag, yank out my laptop, click a few buttons, and pull up the chapters. “Read these.”
“I don’t want to read this stupid—”
“If you’re so sure it’s just a coincidence, you have nothing to lose. Read them, Ivy.”
With an even more exaggerated sigh than the last, she takes the computer, adjusts the angle of the screen, and squints, like she needs glasses. God, we’re getting old. I pluck the readers off the top of my head and shove them at her.
“Thanks,” she mutters and slips them on, peering at the screen.
I sip my coffee, waiting and watching. I know what comes next. I know what she’ll say.
“Oh my God.” Her voice comes out tiny, strained. “You were serious.”
“Of course I was serious!”
“This is . . .” Her hand goes to her chest. After another moment, she closes the laptop quickly, like she can’t read any more. “Lucas? The kneeling? The pendant? But who could know, Lizzie, who?”
My old name. A nickname no one uses anymore. It unsettles me more than I care to admit. “I don’t know,” I say.
“Why now? It’s been twenty years.”
Again, I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
Silence. Then Ivy turns my way, her hand clasping my arm. “You’ve been seeing that guy, right? His son? Noah.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Small towns.
“No, we just met at Liars Pub, the place on Main Street.”
“Is it him?”
Of course I’ve been kicking that very question around since we walked out of the bar. As crazy of a coincidence as it is that we would meet, my gut thinks that’s all it was. “I don’t think so, but I don’t know for sure.”
“Well, we need to know.”
“What would you like me to do, ask him? Hey. Are you pretending to be my student and sending me a twisted story because I killed your father?”
Ivy’s eyes dart around the parking lot. “Shhh. Keep your voice down.”
No one’s near the car, but she’s right. Lord knows, Chief Unger seemed to have materialized out of thin air. I lower to a whisper. “I don’t think it’s him.”
“Well, can you go back to the bar? Maybe get him drunk and start him talking?” Her voice fades off. She gnaws on her lip, deep in thought. “Even if it’s not him, maybe he knows something we don’t. He had to know his father better than anyone still alive.” Her eyes roam my face. “You’re still as pretty as you were back then. He’s a man, a single one from what I understand.” Her eyes meet mine. “Get close to him. Do whatever it takes. We have to figure out who this is. We have to.”
I study her, surprised by her cunning. I wouldn’t have thought Ivy, of all people—small-town Ivy, who got married soon after high school and never left Louisiana—would suggest such a thing.
But I do know one thing.
She’s right.
I nod. “I’ll work on it. I will.”
Ivy’s shoulders relax. “I need to get back. I have a foster parent coming for a checkpoint meeting.”
“All right. I’ll call you.”
Ivy pushes open the car door, swings her feet, and is about to get out. I touch her shoulder. “Ivy, wait.”