Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 128812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
When I'm done, I stand and carry my plate to the sink, then look in the cabinet for a sponge. If the man cooked, the least I could do was the dishes. As if he knew exactly how much each of us would eat, there are no leftovers to put in the fridge.
I'm finished with the dishes and drying my hands on a thin dish towel when he speaks.
"She's dead."
I freeze, my back still to him as heartache fills every empty space inside of me. I swallow against the lump forming in my throat and fight the urge to ask who, knowing it would be incredibly stupid. It's obvious who he is speaking of, but the part of me that adored his sister just doesn't want it to be true.
She was so vibrant and full of life. She looked at her little brother with so much love and adoration. I felt blessed whenever I was able to witness it, despite how it made me long for just one person to look at me that way.
"She—"
His words fall away when I turn to face him, and I know immediately this is either a conversation he doesn't want to have face-to-face, or it's one he can't manage with my eyes on him.
I turn back around, busying myself with organizing the few dishes we were provided, hoping he'll explain.
His tone is dry and emotionless when he continues, as if he's numb from the pain, although I know him well enough to know better.
"She died in jail."
I freeze, not expecting that turn of circumstance.
"She started dating a piece of shit about a year after you left town, and it only took six months before she was arrested for a drug delivery she and her guy were busted on. He was a part of a drug-selling militia, and when she wouldn't claim all the drugs as hers and take the fall, they had her killed. Twenty-five and gone just because she fell in love with the wrong person," he mutters.
His chosen career path now makes perfect fucking sense. The man was always a problem-solver. He always wanted to fix what was broken, so dedicating his life to stopping those sorts of groups in his sister's memory isn't a surprise.
Silence fills the air, and I turn to face him, somehow knowing this is all the information he's going to share with me.
Sadness swims in his eyes despite the sober, stern look on his face, and the grief that seems to drop his shoulders a few inches makes me want to hug the man. I know that's the very last thing he'd want.
"I'm so sorry for your loss," I say, the words feeling like sandpaper in my mouth. "She was a wonderful person and deserved much better."
He dips his head, lips forming a flat line as he looks back down to his half-eaten plate of food.
"Thanks for dinner," I say before leaving the room, feeling like a complete asshole because I can't find better words to comfort him.
Chapter 9
Zayne
I shift on the sofa for what seems like the millionth time since I sat down just a few minutes ago, agitation running through my veins with every beat of my heart.
I wish I could blame the unease in my body on the upcoming job. It would be easy to point fingers at not knowing how this next task will end. The paramilitary guys aren't exactly known for having level heads and thinking shit through before they act, but I know better.
My vulnerability last night is what has me on edge. I know Cerberus knows about Dakota and what happened to her. I also know that they left such tragic details out of my dossier, but there was a part of me that had hoped that Frankie was aware of my loss. Knowing now that he didn't have a clue about my loss has only taken a little bit of the sting out of it.
I needed him more than ever when we lost my sister so senselessly, and every day that passed without so much as a call cut deeper and deeper. The silence was deafening in those days following the terrible news, and with each passing second without hearing from him, a bitterness grew inside me.
I presumed I hadn't heard from him because he just didn't care. That the evenings he spent smiling at and laughing with her meant nothing to him. It felt callous and intentional, and I don't know how, after all these years, to accept that he hadn't been told.
It leaves me wondering what he would've done had he known.
Would he have come back home to comfort me? Would he have sent flowers?
Would he have ignored the news?
I don't know the man he’s become enough to even make a prediction, and that is just more salt in a wound that may never heal where he is concerned.