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 first drawer pulls out easily, but it contains nothing but tissues, a bottle of melatonin, condoms, and a spare phone charger. The second drawer is empty. I expect the third drawer to be empty, too, but when I yank it out, there’s a box. A small, old-fashioned gift box, crafted in purple and yellow. It looks more like something that would have belonged to his mother than something that belongs to him. I pull it out, open the top, and freeze.
Photographs.
Polaroids, to be exact, a thick stack of them.
My stomach bottoms out, another memory rising to the surface. Mr. Sawyer, hair blowing in the wind. A blocky camera in his hands, him raising it with a grin to snap a photo of Jocelyn—of me. I blink, and the vision dissolves. I’m not sure if it was real or my imagination coming up with something. But I empty the box of photos into my trembling hands.
The first several are women I don’t recognize. Or maybe “women” is an exaggeration. These are girls, no older than I was. Years are scribbled at the bottom of each. All before I was even in high school. I swallow back bile and keep flipping until I stop at a familiar girl, all legs and arms, in a bikini.
Jocelyn. Me. On a local beach.
The memory from before hits full force—he was kind that day, asked if I wanted to do something different. We met in a parking lot the next town over, and I got to climb into his car with him, got to sit in the front seat beside him. He planted his big, strong hand on my bare thigh, and we rolled down the windows for the whole drive there. I felt so happy—like he was really my boyfriend, like we were together, like we had a future.
At the beach, he spread out big towels and offered me watermelon. We sat together for a long time, and he pulled out a well-loved book of poems, read many of them aloud to me. I lazed on the towel, feeling like things had changed, things were going to be different from now on. Afterward, I stripped down to my bikini, and he gazed appreciatively at my body before asking if he could snap a photo—“Gotta remember a beautiful girl on a beautiful day,” he said. I blushed, so pleased he thought I was beautiful. Of course he could take a photo.
I posed for a couple, in fact, rolling on my stomach and glancing what I thought was seductively over one shoulder.
Now, I flip to the next photograph, and there it is—my ass hanging out of my bikini bottoms, looking about twelve years old. I think I might vomit. Might lose my tiny breakfast.
I swap the photos around again, look at the next in the stack. This time, it’s a different girl. She’s posing in front of a motel room.
A motel room numbered 212. It, too, is dated before he met me—five years before, in fact.
“How many girls did you do this to?” I murmur and realize my hands are wet—the photos are wet—and it’s because I’m crying, big fat tears rolling down my cheeks. How dare he? How dare he do this to me? How dare he do this to all of them? Are they all out there somewhere, going through the same thing I have? The thought angers me, makes me wish I could wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze.
I freeze when I get to another photo of someone I recognize. Ivy.
I let that photo and some of the others slip from my hands and scatter over the carpeted floor. It’s a mistake, though—half a dozen innocent girls’ gazes staring back at me, trusting me like they trusted him. It’s overwhelming, and I rock back on my heels, holding back sobs. One man hurt so many girls.
“What the fuck are you doing?” A booming voice shouts from behind me, a voice that for a moment, I think is Mr. Sawyer’s. I twist around, panicked.
But it’s not him. It’s his son. Noah.
CHAPTER
41
My entire body shakes.
But it’s not fear. It’s rage, raw anger searing through my veins.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I scream. A few Polaroids are still in my hands. I clench my fists and crumple them into a ball. “Do you get off on it? Reminding women who’ve finally moved on what was done to them?” My eyes widen, a horrible thought occurring to me. “Oh my God. Are you doing this to all of us? All the girls in the photos?”
Noah’s eyes drop to the floor, to the splatter of Polaroids strewn all over the carpet. His face changes. Anger morphs into something else—a moment of indecision, almost confusion. He opens his mouth, but says nothing as his pupils dart between the photos and my face. “What are you talking about?”