Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 149301 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 747(@200wpm)___ 597(@250wpm)___ 498(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 149301 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 747(@200wpm)___ 597(@250wpm)___ 498(@300wpm)
At the time, he’d thought his mother was out of her damned mind. Mama had made many predictions over his life, and sometimes they were wrong, or not quite the way she saw them. He called and told her that Poet hadn’t been sick or late when she first left the voicemail. She accepted that and moved on. He’d pretty much forgotten what she’d said until right at that moment. Oh, shit…
Soon after, Poet came up the hall, her complexion back to normal. She offered a weak smile as she patted her hair back into place.
“Where’s my drink, baby?”
“Are you late? When was your last period?”
She cocked her head to the side and leaned against one of the kitchen chairs, looking rather confused.
“Kage, I can’t believe you are thinkin’ of sex at a time like this! You know I’m sick with a terrible cold!”
“I’m not tryna get laid, Poet. I promise. Just answer the questions. Are you late, and when was your last period?”
“No,” she shook her head, “I’m not late. I haven’t missed a cycle, either. I was just on last month, remember? Why’d you ask me that?”
“Just curious…” He took a deep breath, nodded, then walked over to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of ginger ale. After pouring it into a glass, he handed it to her. She started taking small sips.
“Are ya feeling better?” he asked as he leaned against the counter, crossing his ankles and arms.
“Yeah, that was terrible.” She sat down in the chair, nursing the drink. “So, as I was saying about the land. See—”
“Possum, I want you to take a pregnancy test.”
“What? Why? I just told you that I’m not late. I’m on birth control now, and—”
“Yeah, but there was a few times we didn’t use any condoms when you first got on it, as backup, Poet.” He pursed his lips. “And you were warned by your doctor that you could still get pregnant if we didn’t use other protection for the first month or two. I didn’t put on a rubber every time. You know that.”
They stared at one another for a long while. She took another sip of her drink, looked out the kitchen window, then nodded. “Okay then. If it’ll make you happy, I’ll pick up a pregnancy test tomorrow, but I’m tellin’ you, it’ll be negative. Now, come on over here and sit down. I want to finish telling you about my idea…”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
In the Hot Seat and Italian Ice
Grandpa Wilde stood from the wooden gold-studded cream chair, making it creak, and grasped his silver and diamond cane. He was met with a disenchanted stare from the new detective he’d hired to work the case, Steve Grey. Over time he’d engaged many like him. Some were fired. Some were placed on ice. Some worked together. A team of experts was better than an individual, he figured.
“I’m sorry that I don’t have better news, Cyrus,” Detective Grey stated dryly. “Would you like me to call for your chauffeur, or did you—”
“I drove here myself today. Needed the fresh air and alone time.”
The man nodded, broke their eye contact, then looked at his laptop as if there was some pressing matter he needed to attend to. Grandpa reached for his ivory cowboy hat that sat on the desk and placed it atop his head. The detective was typing away on his computer, dismissing him with his behavior. Grandpa Wilde didn’t care for his dull, no nonsense personality, but as long as he did his job, personality quirks weren’t much of a concern. He stood there for a bit, studying the man’s face.
When he had his fill, he turned his attention to the detective’s walls covered in accolades: royal blue, gold, and pewter military medals, framed degrees from highly accredited and respectable educational institutions, and certificates detailing his vocational accomplishments with various law enforcement agencies. He looked down at the untouched cigar that Dt. Grey had offered when he’d first entered the office, then out the window, at the nice golf course in the distance. How lovely everything was, including the weather. It was almost like a taunting of sorts—a mockery of how things were falling apart at the seams.
The detective’s office smelled like cherries, cigar smoke, and a five star hotel rolled into one, only he wished to get away from there, as lovely as it all was. Perhaps it was his disappointment making him yearn to vanish from this place, and if possible, climb out of his own skin.
Oh, to be young again… to be able to do it over. I would have never let you leave, Tina. I would have paid attention. Now I’m here. In this place. Racing around town tryna find someone, anyone, that can find you…
He’d been called, told there was news, only it wasn’t the news he expected. Tina had escaped once again. Blurry storefront videos showed a woman that could possibly have been her, fleeing with one suitcase. A relocation, no doubt. No beginning. No end. Just a gray fuzziness covered not only the footage, but his own life—no one could make heads or tails of it. How she kept slipping away was beyond his comprehension. Sure, the woman was smart and had a wicked sixth sense, but she was human after all. Everyone meets their D-Day eventually. She was older now… slower… but somehow, slicker. He sucked his teeth as he started to make his way out to the lobby. A watered down, miserable farewell was offered as he closed the door behind him.