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 trail a safe distance behind, so safe that I almost lose track of him on more than one occasion. Noah drives fast, twenty miles an hour over the speed limit. So the forty-minute drive back to Minton Parish takes only thirty. It’s uneventful, predictable even. Noah turns left at the second light off the highway, then right, and when the two cars between us go in different directions, it’s too obvious for me to follow anymore. I pull to the side of the road and let him go the rest of the way home alone. After ten minutes, I figure he should be inside by now, so I do a drive-by to make sure that’s where he went. Sure enough, the red truck is parked out front.
I pass, blowing out two disappointed cheeks full of air. What a waste of an afternoon. I could sit around, wait and see if he goes anywhere else tonight, but I suddenly don’t have the energy. So I keep driving until I pull into my mom’s driveway. Noah’s business card still lies on the passenger seat on top of Mom’s things. I leave the car running and pull out my phone, type Noah Sawyer into the Google search bar. I have no idea what took me so long to do it, but a bunch of stuff pops up. I scroll through the garbage—Whitepages, Classmates, LinkedIn, Facebook—a bunch of articles with high school baseball statistics. Apparently, Noah was a pitcher. At the bottom of the first page, I click on something interesting—Publishers Marketplace, an announcement about the sale of a book.
Debut author Noah Sawyer’s The Secret, in which a decades-old secret leads a struggling reporter to realize he never really knew his family, to Rena Kline at Umbrella Books.
My heart pounds. Family secret? A reporter who never knew his family? Is this what he’s writing? My story? Our story? Is it the chapters I’ve been reading? Is that what he’s planning on publishing? My entire body is shaking.
My phone, which is still in my hand, vibrates, and it scares the shit out of me. But it’s only a text coming in from my boss, my department head at the university. I need the distraction, so I swipe over and read.
Maryellen: Hi, Elizabeth. I’m sorry to bother you at a time like this. But I emailed you a few days ago and haven’t heard back. I just wanted to find out if you have an idea when you’ll be returning so I can work on getting coverage extended. No rush. Take as long as you need. If you could please just shoot me an email and copy HR whenever you have an opportunity, I’d appreciate it. I hope you’re doing well.
Ugh. It isn’t like me to shirk my responsibilities. I’ve been so wrapped up in the mess down here that I haven’t checked my work email since before I left New York. I texted Maryellen and told her my mother died and I needed to take some time off, and that I’d check in when I knew more. But I never did.
I immediately swipe over to my work email, to do as Maryellen asked. There are a dozen new messages. I scan them, freezing when I get to the last one.
Hannah Greer.
And there’s an attachment.
CHAPTER
38
Istare at the email for a long time—long enough that the screen goes dark and I have to swipe and let it recognize my face again to reread the message. It’s dated almost a week ago—the day before my mother’s death. And it’s just been sitting here, waiting for me this whole time. My boss’s request forgotten, I jab at the attachment, opening it as the car’s air-conditioning hums away.
I take a deep breath when it flickers open, wishing I had a whiskey or two to fortify myself. I could run into the house, pour something, but my heart pounds, the anticipation too strong, and I can’t do anything but sit right here in the driver’s seat.
It’s another chapter. Of course it is. I knew it would be. I imagine Noah in his house, sitting on his bed wearing his glasses, smirking as he hits send from a fake email address. I exhale and start to read.
Chapter 6—Hannah’s Novel
Jocelyn didn’t hesitate this time as she drove up to the parking lot, parked the car, strolled into the motel office. She paid with cash and gave her fake name, then went to the room to wait. Mr. Sawyer wouldn’t arrive for some time. That was how they stayed safe, how no one found out what they were doing. And she didn’t want to give him any reason to put a stop to it. She lived for these nights with him, the one person who noticed her, who took time to help her.
As she waited, she wandered the room, opening shelves and drawers. Sometimes she found surprises—things people had left, the people who stayed here on the nights they didn’t have the room. Once, she’d found a pack of gum, though she wasn’t about to chew some stranger’s gum. This time, she found a Bible. A nice one. Freshly placed there. The spine hadn’t even been cracked yet. Jocelyn ran her fingers over the cloth exterior, but didn’t dare open it. She’d gone to church, knew the scripture, and didn’t feel the need to read more about God or Jesus, especially not on the nights she was at the motel.