Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64362 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64362 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Last night, we’d flown back to America, but I had no idea where we were landing because Brady had said we’d discuss things today. Then we got off the plane, and a Jeep Wagoneer was waiting on us. Emmett hadn’t joined us in the car, but he was here too. I’d seen him get into another vehicle behind ours.
The exhaustion from not sleeping for weeks and the slight relief to be back on American soil, even if it wasn’t in Miami, hit me, and I closed my eyes and fell asleep almost immediately.
Morning had come while I was sleeping, it seemed. I adjusted the back of my seat to sit up straight. From the looks of it, I assumed we were in Georgia or somewhere in the southeast. But where exactly, I wasn’t sure.
“Heavy sleeper you are,” Brady said beside me in his Southern accent.
I frowned at him. That was so beyond weird.
“Are you going to tell me where we are, or do I have to look at the signs and guess?” My voice was raspy from sleep when I spoke, and I cleared my throat, then looked around for the bottle of water I’d brought with me from the plane.
“Here,” Brady said, handing me a bottle of water.
I took it, still scowling, and didn’t thank him. Untwisting the lid, I took a long pull from it and then another. Flying always dehydrated me. I never understood how people drank alcohol on planes. I was too busy chugging water.
“We’ve clearly been driving awhile,” I said. “Are we in Georgia?”
“We are,” he replied, no longer tense, like he’d been last night. “How do you feel about going blonde?”
I swung my head around to gape at him. “If you touch my hair, the moment you fall asleep, I will put your gun in your mouth and pull the trigger.”
He rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t going to do it. I thought we could find a high-end salon.”
“NO. Absolutely not,” I snapped.
“Fine. We will go the wig route.” He sighed. “It would be less of a hassle if it was just colored though.”
“Eat shit and die,” I muttered as I glared out the window.
“What did you just say?” he asked with clear amusement in his tone.
“You heard me,” I replied.
“You said, ‘Eat shit and die.’ Am I correct?” He was laughing now as he spoke.
“Yes,” I replied through clenched teeth.
He cackled so loudly that I winced. “You’re entertaining. I didn’t know what to expect, but you’ve not disappointed me. But then for you to have my brother so obsessed, I figured you weren’t boring.”
“Where in Georgia are we?” I asked, not caring what he thought of me.
Maybe if I was boring, he’d stop forcing me to be in his presence.
“Just came through Atlanta,” he said, then reached for a to-go cup of coffee.
Where had he gotten coffee?
“Destination is Greensboro. Quaint little small town with antebellum homes. Just the kinda place you want to raise our children in.” He laid on the drawl thick when he said it.
“And how long do we have to live this farce?” I asked him.
“Just until things clear out back home,” he replied. “Normally takes a couple of weeks, and then they stop sniffing when they find nothing and leave it alone. I’m assuming this is connected to someone looking for you. Although I’m impressed that they figured out who had taken you so quickly.”
“Why are we going to a small town in Georgia?”
He flashed me a smile that made me want to slap him. “Best place to get lost is a small town in the States. It’s one reason my Southern accent is damn good. No one is gonna be looking for me tucked away in a middle-class suburban home. While they do their poking in Ireland, we will be here. When they leave Ireland, then we will go back. Simple plan. Works like a charm.”
How many times had he done this? Was his entire life like this? Hiding, running?
“Your family isn’t a private one in Boston. They’re well known. How do you go without someone recognizing you?”
I prayed they would, but he was right. It was very unlikely in a small town in Georgia. They would be more interested in bringing us pies and inviting us to church on Sundays.
“Like I told you before, I do not exist. How can someone who doesn’t exist be recognized? And even if someone happened to see the resemblance, they would know that Eamon was an only child and Irish. Do I sound Irish to you?” he asked smugly.
“No, and it’s incredibly weird,” I replied. “I don’t see how it is you can’t exist. You were born. There have to be records of your entrance into the world.”
He nodded. “That is the conundrum, isn’t it? But the woman who gave birth to me wasn’t Keira Murphy. I was born to one of the maids my father had been fucking. But Keira was unaware of who the father was, up until my mother went into labor while at work—because my father refused to allow Keira to let her go due to her condition. Her heart gave out, due to an undetected heart condition she’d had since birth, and she died after I was born.