Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
It’s the car I followed two days ago. The car that pulled over and waited for me.
The kind of car you never want to see pulling up to your house unannounced, ever. I’m grasping for any way to rationalize this, but deep down, I already know. I know before I even see him step out of the dark vehicle. My intuition, sharp and unwelcome, screams his name.
Shephard cuts the fire to the pan and then pushes off the counter. “Someone just pulled up.” His voice is low, strained, a question and a warning wrapped into one. He sees it too. He knows something is profoundly amiss.
The car door closes, a silent swing, almost graceful. The blood feels like it drains from my body, rushing from my head, leaving me lightheaded, dizzy. My vision tunnels. The world seems to tilt on its axis, a sickening lurch, the floorboards swaying beneath me. The air suddenly feels too thick, too heavy to breathe, pressing down on my lungs. My heart lurches in my chest, a violent, painful beat, my stomach dropping like a stone, the sensation of free fall. I blink, hard, once, twice, hoping that somehow I’ve imagined it, that my mind is playing cruel tricks on me, a residual nightmare from last night.
But it’s real. He’s real. Motherfucker.
The sunlight catches on the sharp line of Saint’s jaw, the dark gleam of his hair. Saint. He’s here. And he’s walking toward my house. Toward Shephard. Toward my girls.
My breath hitches, lost in my throat. What is he doing here? The words are a desperate whisper, barely audible, directed at no one, a plea against the impossible.
“Who is that?” The question slams into me like a freight train, sending my thoughts spiraling into a maelstrom of sheer panic. Shephard’s quiet query echoes in the sudden, cavernous silence of the kitchen, but it’s my own internal scream. Every rational thought evaporates, dissolving like smoke; I’m desperate to find a reason that would explain his impossible presence here and doesn’t involve the scorching, undeniable truth of what I’ve done.
I can’t think straight. All I can hear is the rushing in my ears, a roaring like a distant ocean, the steady thrum of blood pounding in my veins, deafening me to the innocent giggles of my daughters still playing with their puzzle on the island.
My heart is hammering against my rib cage, a frantic bird trying to escape, its wings beating a furious rhythm.
“Do you know this person?” Shephard asks.
Suddenly, it’s hard to breathe, each inhale a shallow, desperate gasp. I can feel the walls of the sterile kitchen closing in around me, the familiar comfort suddenly constricting. Every instinct screams at me to stop this, to find a way to stop him before everything unravels, before the fragile facade of my life shatters into a million irreparable pieces.
“No idea,” I say, my voice steady but my shame buried just beneath it.
Shephard starts heading to the door, his steps purposeful. I want to scream at him, to stop him from answering it, to grab him and hold him back, to physically block his path, but my voice is stuck in my throat, a dry, choked whisper.
I slide Andi off my lap, almost roughly, as soon as Shephard says, “Why would a cop be here?”
His voice is more casual now, a slight note of confusion in it, like he’s mildly perplexed by this unexpected visit, not truly alarmed. He has no idea what’s really going on, no idea that the officer outside isn’t just here for some routine check, isn’t just a friendly public servant. But I know. I know with a sickening certainty, and the dread pooling in my stomach, a cold, viscous liquid, is almost unbearable. It tastes like ash.
My legs feel like they might give out beneath me, like jelly, but I force myself to walk to the door with Shephard, each step a monumental effort. Every stride feels like I’m walking toward my own execution, toward the scaffold. I glance out the window, my breath catching in my throat when I see Saint walking slowly around Shephard’s car, circling it like a predator. His movements are deliberate, measured, a terrifying choreography, like he’s taking his sweet time, like he knows the absolute, devastating power he holds in this moment, a puppet master pulling invisible strings.
I keep my distance from Shephard, putting a few precious feet between us, trying to maintain some semblance of composure, to project an image of calm.
Shephard’s hand is already on the doorknob, his face still a picture of mild confusion. He pulls the door open, and it’s as if I can literally see my family dissolving like a sandcastle hit by a rogue wave. The foundation we’ve built, the life we’ve shared, all of it feels impossibly fragile, like it could shatter with just one wrong word, one wrong look, one perfectly delivered lie.