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)
“Never.” He winks. “You’re stuck with me for life.”
For that, I’m truly grateful. Mr. Hank and I talk for another hour. About nothing important—the horses that ran today, the new patient who moved into the room next to his, about how he’s hoping it doesn’t snow tomorrow. I don’t remind him it’s the end of June and not January. Mostly he’s with it, and I feel lucky to have had a good visit today. Toward the end, a nurse comes by to tell him it’s almost time for lunch. He introduces me to her, calling me Molly instead of Elizabeth. Molly was his wife’s name.
“I should get going, but I’ll come back soon. And I’ll bring donuts next time.”
He points to me. “Chocolate.”
I smile. “Anything else would be criminal.” I give him a hug goodbye.
When I pull back, he clutches my arm for a second. “She loves you, even if she doesn’t say it and isn’t good at showing it.”
“Who?”
“Your mother.”
I assume he means because all mothers are supposed to love their daughters, but then he adds, “She told me.”
“My mother told you she loves me?”
He nods. “Never mentioned it because I knew how much you struggled to move on after you left.”
I don’t usually correct him, but my response slips out. “But you’ve never spoken to my mother.”
“Except that once, when you were sick in the hospital for a few days.”
My heart deflates. For a moment there, I thought maybe he’d actually spoken to my mother. But he’s just confused again, because I’ve never been in the hospital in New York, and my mother has never once said she loved me. Not even to me. I try not to let it get me down, but it feels like a punch in the gut.
He cups my cheek. “I love you, Molly. Don’t be sad.”
I press a kiss to his forehead. “And I love you, too. And how can I be sad when I have you in my life?”
I’ve no sooner exited the floor and stepped back onto the elevator when my phone vibrates with a text.
Sam: Dinner tonight?
I sigh. The only plan I have for the evening is to take one of the sleeping pills in my purse and crash, forgetting the last month ever happened. My fingers hover over the keypad, about to text back, when it vibrates a second time.
Sam: I got some information on your friend Jocelyn.
My eyes go wide.
So much for sleeping tonight. I can’t type back fast enough.
Elizabeth: Dinner sounds great!
CHAPTER
22
You okay, babe?”
I feel like I’m about to burst. I’ve been here almost a half hour now, and Sam still hasn’t mentioned anything about Jocelyn. I’m trying to be patient, not let on how desperate I am to get the information, but it’s not easy when you’re running on caffeine and adrenaline.
I force a smile. “I’m fine. Why do you ask?”
Sam studies my face. I really wish he wouldn’t play detective with me. He shrugs. “You look tired. Stressed.”
Great. Now the shitstorm going on inside of my body is spilling over to the outside. “My neck’s bothering me again,” I lie. “Woke me up a few times the last couple of nights.”
He turns the burner down to simmer, walks around to the side of the island I’m sitting at, and puts his big hands on my shoulders. “You should’ve said something. You know I have magic fingers.”
Sam’s fingers are, in fact, pretty magical. He kneads into my neck muscles, and my head immediately drops a few inches. It feels like it’s just been disconnected from a tension rod. I can’t help it, I groan.
He presses his thumbs in deeper. “Feels good?”
“Yeah,” I breathe out. “Thanks.”
After a while, I start to think maybe the tension in my neck was the problem. Because it feels like I could curl up into a ball and go to sleep right now. But then Sam opens his mouth again . . .
“So, I found three people with your friend’s name in the state of Florida.”
My head jerks upright, and I brush his hands from my shoulders. “Oh?”
Sam kisses the top of my head. “Need to stir my sauce.” He walks back around to the other side of the island and starts fiddling with the knobs on the stove, as if I’m not holding my breath, waiting for the rest of what he has to say. Of course he doesn’t know what’s at stake. But when he opens the drawer where he keeps the spices and starts rummaging, I can’t wait any longer.
“And? What were you able to find out about the three people?”
He pulls out a jar of oregano, twists the cap, shakes some flakes into the sauce he’s making. “Two of them are easy enough to rule out. You said you and your friend went to high school together, so I’m assuming she’s mid- to late thirties?”