Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 124341 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124341 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
“No. It was in the front of your book.”
She looked confused for a moment, and then understanding dawned, and she released a short breath. “My journal,” she said. “So you’re the one who stole it?”
“I didn’t steal it. I found it.”
“Did you read it?”
He cast his eyes down. “Yes.” A thousand times, and then again.
She set her hands on her hips. “Hmm. You shouldn’t have done that. Those were my private thoughts.”
He felt embarrassed. Ashamed. Mostly because her words had meant so much to him, and she hadn’t wanted him to read them. He felt a quivering inside, a different sort of hurt than he’d experienced before. “Sorry,” he mumbled. The words he’d cherished so much had been stolen words, not meant for him at all. He’d known that, of course. But to hear it out loud from her created a piercing pain.
In his peripheral vision, she took a step toward him. She was within arm’s reach now. “It’s okay. Listen…we’re at my father’s lake cottage right now. Sam, he’s worried about me helping you. About me being alone out here with you.”
His gaze flew to hers. “I won’t hurt you,” he said. Could he if he wanted to? Even wounded like he was? Yes. But he had no desire to hurt Autumn.
She watched him for several moments, and he felt his face heat. It surprised him. He didn’t usually get embarrassed, but he felt exposed under her stare. Because he cared what she thought of him. Down deep in a hidden place where he stored the few valuables that mattered to him. He knew she must be thinking that he looked like a freak and a monster, even while he was so stunned by her beauty he could barely speak.
“My father believed I’d tie you up,” she said.
His stomach lurched. He’d been tied up before—strapped down—while they’d done horrific things to his body…as he’d screamed and begged them to stop. He wouldn’t hurt Autumn, and he wouldn’t beg, but he’d turn this house upside down before he’d let her tie him down.
But before he could respond, she said, “I didn’t tie you down. Not even when you were unconscious. And I’m not going to attempt it now.” She gave him the side-eye. “I have a feeling you’d try to leave if I did. But I’m going to trust you, Sam, because I have good reason to believe you’re kind and that you won’t hurt me even if you could.”
“I’m not kind,” he said, because he wasn’t, and though it hurt and embarrassed him to know she saw him as the monster he was, he also didn’t want to lie or mislead.
She looked thoughtful for a moment. “Decent then.”
“No, I’m not that either.”
She let out a small laugh that quickly died. “Well, honest anyway.”
He considered that. “Yes. I’m honest.” Or rather he’d never had much reason to lie. His job had not required words meant to deceive. Only brute force action had been necessary.
“Good. Can I trust you?”
He opened his mouth and then closed it. He wasn’t sure how to answer that. Trust was an odd thing to ask about. There were a dozen reasons he could have said no. But…this was Autumn asking him. “Not to hurt you?” he clarified.
“Yes.”
“Yes, you can trust me not to hurt you.”
“Good.” She stepped all the way to his bedside. “I’m going to take your temperature and look at your wounds, okay?”
He nodded, and she pulled a chair up, sitting down and gently peeling the bandages away. He had so many questions, but he hardly knew where to start. “Why were you there?” he asked after a moment. “At that school.”
She paused, her hands stilling. “I followed you.”
She’d followed him?
“I was in New York City trying to find more information about my past.” Something almost dreamy moved across her pretty features. “I saw you on the street,” she murmured. “And I followed you.” She met his eyes. “We have a lot to talk about, Sam.”
Chapter Nineteen
The man who’d entered Deercroft Academy with a firearm, ultimately killing four teachers, wounding two children and a custodian, and finally shooting himself, was named Jason Leads, and he’d lived alone in a studio apartment in Queens. He was a loner, apparently, and his neighbors reported that they’d only seen him on occasion, either coming or going. He’d barely responded to attempts at conversation, only giving terse, one-word replies to neighborly greetings.
Mark used his gloved hand to pick up a photo on the desk in the small main room. It was the suspect, along with an old woman with a head of tight gray curls. The woman had an oxygen tube in her nose but was offering a weak smile. Leads’s grandmother, Shirlene, who had died ten years before. Other than her, the suspect had no family and no friends who’d come forward. A complete loner.