Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
I dodge the nurses' station and walk fast with my head down. Heartbroken doesn't touch it—the ache in my chest twists sharply. I am leaving the only family I've ever known. Freya's giggles, Blake's touch, Frances's acceptance—they all flash in my mind, but what choice do I have?
I push through the exit doors into the cold night air. My heels feel unsteady on the asphalt as I head toward the road. Leaving them was always on the cards, but God, it hurts like hell, far more than I could have imagined it would.
Chapter Fifty-Three
JULIET
Ihail a taxi outside Southampton Hospital, the yellow cab pulling up with a brake squeak under the floodlights. The driver—a middle-aged guy in a Yankees cap—glances back as I slide in. The leather seat feels tacky from the day's humidity, and the radio plays country music.
I give him the address, and he nods. It turns out to be an old farmhouse in Riverhead on Long Island's North Fork. Soon, we’re on our way as he merges into sparse traffic, the hospital lights fading in the rearview as we head west. The road winds through dark fields and woods, and my mind spins the whole way.
Why now?
Why this?
The party's probably still going, guests making bids at the auction under string lights, oblivious and sipping champagne. And here I am, racing to the woman who started it. I’m eager to meet with her not because of the money. I don’t want her money now. It’s blood money. But I need answers—what's going on? Why the syringe? Why Frances? Guilt chews deep and bitter. And heartbreak tangles with anger. That craving for Blake's arms makes breathing hard, like I’m tearing away a part of me.
The drive drags on, about forty minutes through North Fork suburbs, past sleeping vineyards and rows of grapevines under the moon's pale glow. Air slips in through the cracked window, fresh with damp earth and faint fermentation from harvest. Finally, we pull up, and I see a sprawling old farmhouse, gray clapboard weathered by coastal winds. A wraparound porch sags slightly, lights glowing warm in the windows like watchful eyes. Gravel crunches under the cab’s tires as the driver stops. I pay with Carolyn's credit card from my purse, the plastic slick in my sweaty palm. I tip him extra. Like double. Fuck her. The driver can’t believe his luck. He asks if he should wait.
“Yes,” I tell him.
I step out into the night, the cool air brushing against my bare shoulders and raising goosebumps along my skin. A distant owl hoots from the trees as I approach the door, my heels sinking a little into the soft, dew-kissed ground.
She opens it quickly. Carolyn stands in the doorway, the wood creaking as the door swings wide. Her face looks sharp under the hall light, that sleek bob framing features so much like mine. She's dressed in the same black gown as me, and her eyes calculate everything, sweeping over me. Her mouth lifts in a sarcastic smile at my shock.
“You can go. I’ll give her a lift back,” she shouts to the cab driver.
The cab drives off, and she gestures for me to come inside with a tight smile. The house smells of aged wood and faint dust, the kind that settles in places left alone too long. Off to the side, the living room waits with its mismatched furniture—a faded floral sofa, a scarred oak coffee table, and a stone fireplace that's cold and empty. There have been no ashes in there for a long, long time.
"Wine?" she offers, holding up a glass of deep red wine. It swirls darkly in a crystal glass, and makes me suspicious it might be poisoned. Her voice comes out smooth and casual, like we're old friends catching up, but the tension in her posture gives her away, her shoulders staying rigid.
"No," I say, my voice steady but edged with the anger I've been holding back. I pause by the doorway for a beat, the floorboards creaking under me as I step further in. My gown feels too tight now, too formal for this raw face-off, and my heart hammers against my ribs.
"What really happened tonight? With Frances—the syringe, all of it. Tell me the truth."
She sets the glass down on a side table with a soft clink. Her smile fades into something colder, more calculated, and she leans against the mantle, arms crossing across her chest.
“You want the truth? The real reason I wanted you to impersonate me?" she asks, her tone matter-of-fact, almost bored, but she doesn’t fool me. I can see frustration flickering in her eyes. Her plans went seriously off-track tonight. "You were my alibi. No one would suspect me of killing the old bitch if I was seen at the party. You being seen at the party was my perfect cover."