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)
Anything can grow addictive, can’t it? Anything. Even people.
I sit back up, scrub a hand over my face. A glance at my phone tells me it’s not even eight yet. I’m just so tired. Maybe I’ll watch some TV. I set my phone back on the nightstand, but as I plug it into the charger, the screen flashes with an incoming call—an unknown number. Again.
I shouldn’t answer. I should let it go to voicemail. But I can’t not answer. I can’t sit here, adding Who was that? to my list of unanswered questions. So I snatch it up, hit the green button.
“Hello?”
No response. Just . . . inhales, exhales.
My chest tightens. “Hello?” I snap. “I can hear you breathing, you know!”
Again, I immediately think it’s Noah. And again I remind myself he doesn’t have my number. And why would he call and just breathe at me? Unless . . . unless he’s the one sending the chapters. And his goal is to scare me. To haunt me. Revenge.
I hang up. There’s no need to feed into whatever it is this person hopes to achieve—no matter who it might be. Instead, I scroll through my contacts until I get to my mother. My finger hovers over the call button as I think back to the conversation we had just before I walked out her front door.
I’ll call you in a few days to see how you’re feeling, Mom.
How about I call you when I feel like talking instead?
Of course she hasn’t called. I’m pretty sure she never will. I’ve tried not to think about her, not to worry about her. She doesn’t deserve my concern, much less my thoughts. Yet . . . I feel compelled to make sure she’s okay. I’m sure a psychiatrist would have a lot to say about the reasons why. I shake my head at myself, but press the green call button anyway.
“Hello? Elizabeth?” Her voice is creaky, breathless. She sounds awful, like she’s at death’s door. I ignore the pang of guilt I feel that I’m not there with her.
“Mom? Are you okay?”
“I’m dying. Of course I’m not okay.” She coughs, moving the phone away, but I can still hear it, hoarse and rattling. When she comes back to the phone, she clears her throat. “Why are you calling?”
I let a beat of silence permeate the air. Why, indeed? “I just wanted to check on you.”
“Been to church yet?” she asks. “I live a good Christian life, and my sins are numerous. You live a heathen’s life, and your sins—”
“I have to go, Mom. But I love you.” I hang up and stare down at the phone, thinking of all the stories I’ve heard about when a parent is dying, and in those final moments, parents and children who have been at odds find a way of reconciling their differences. I don’t think she and I will ever get to that point. She’ll go to the grave swearing she knows best, even though she drank and smoked herself to death.
A knock coming from the other room—fast and harsh—jolts me from my thoughts. Someone’s at my door. Sam, maybe? But would he just show up? I never texted him back today, so probably not. I huff a sigh, climb from bed, and clutch my phone like a weapon while I peek through the peephole. But it’s only Mrs. Patterson, my next-door neighbor.
I crack the door open. I’m not dressed for company. “Hello?”
“Here, dear, I keep getting your mail.” She passes it to me through the crack, gives me a quick smile, then totters away with her cane.
“Thank you.”
I climb back into bed, more unsettled than ever. An hour later, I’m still staring at the ceiling, this time thinking of Jocelyn. She had to have ended up somewhere. If she were still in Florida, she should’ve shown up in the searches Sam did. I need him to go wider—check the entire United States. After yet another hour passes and my brain is still swimming in the same old pool of dead ends, I finally give up and get back out of bed.
I have papers to grade, grades that still need to be entered into the university’s system, and a few dumb, mandatory human resources videos I’m supposed to watch. So I grab my laptop, take a seat at the kitchen table, and try to make myself useful. But before I can log into the university’s grading system, I notice an email from Hannah Greer. It wasn’t there earlier.
My heart races, blood goes hot with nerves pulsing through my body. I swallow and click. There’s no message, no content to the email. She’s clearly ignoring my request to speak with her over Zoom. The only things the email contains are attachments.
And those are labeled Chapter 4 and Chapter 5.