Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
Turns out that Hayes is a slim man with large eyes and short brown hair that stops at the collar of his crisp suit.
He passes me the envelope, a sheen of sadness covering his features. “Mr. Preston Armstrong asked me to give you this the morning of the day he got shot. I should’ve brought it to you sooner, but I couldn’t find time. I hope you forgive me.”
My hand instantly leaves wet fingerprints on the envelope.
Hayes starts to turn around, then stops, a small, sad smile curving his lips. “For what it’s worth, he was the happiest I’ve seen him in years since he started talking about you.”
He nods and heads to the sleek black car that’s waiting for him.
My fingers tighten around the envelope.
Preston sent me something?
What could he have sent when he’d already made his choice?
I bite my lower lip until I taste blood.
Yes, Preston got shot, but it wasn’t only because he wanted to protect Violet.
I saw his dead eyes the moment he decided to take that shot.
And he looked relieved.
And done.
Now, I can finally face the reality of what actually happened and the reason I’ll never forgive him.
Preston wasn’t killed. He committed suicide.
34
PRESTON
To Marcus,
I’m not sure why I’m writing you this letter after you clearly let me go.
Fine, I do. My therapist suggested I tell you “things,” and since I can never say this to you out loud, a letter could be a compromise.
You get to enjoy my beautiful writing. Not many people have had the pleasure to see it. You’re welcome, I guess.
I’ve started this for the fifth time, by the way. I might have had a mini panic attack while scribbling the others before I ripped them up.
It’s because my brain is fighting me. He does that all the time, you know—fighting, sabotaging, and driving me insane. I just pretend to be in control because I have to. If I don’t, I’ll need to admit I’ve lost.
And if I lose, I’ll do what my brain has always wanted—follow my mom over the cliff.
But, eh, I guess you’d want me to start from the beginning.
Fuck.
I’m kind of hyperventilating, and the words are blurry, and I want to quit and rip this piece of paper to shreds.
But that would mean leaving you alone, and I’m just too much of a selfish son of a bitch to do that. So here goes.
If I bore you to tears, you can burn this.
When I was a kid, I was whimsical. I liked walking in gardens, climbing trees, and eating lots of sweets. I used to talk to birds and squirrels, pretending they were my friends.
I wanted many of those. Friends, I mean. Being an only child in a house full of adults and the son of parents who never really got along, I was a bit lonely.
But it was okay. Even if Mom and Dad fought, they still loved me. They put me to bed and read me stories about monsters and faraway kingdoms that I’d repeat the following day to my squirrel friends. Hey, you better not judge. I was a literal kid.
Anyway, things changed when my parents divorced. Mom hated being alone with a passion and told me repeatedly that Dad abandoned us because we didn’t fit his image anymore.
I later learned that she tried to take me to France without Dad’s knowledge out of spite.
Now that I’ve grown up, I realize that neither of them was at fault.
Thing is, Mom was emotional while Dad is, you know, a ROBOT. It wouldn’t have worked between them anyway. As much as I loathe Satan’s lover, aka his current wife, Lilith, she’s more compatible with him because she doesn’t care about his lack of emotions.
Mom did.
She cared a lot and loved too much, and maybe she lost her temper too easily, which I think irked Dad to no end, hence the divorce. After which, he gave her a mansion for the two of us to live in that was close to the Armstrong residence.
It was too big for us, and Mom, like me, was whimsical and had a tendency to get lonely and overconsume wine. She was an alcoholic, now that I think about it. People have coffee first thing in the morning, but she had her glass of wine.
And because Mom got lonely easily, she always had all sorts of friends over—artists, directors, French socialites. She loved hogging all the attention and being a social butterfly, even if no one cared about her.
I guess we’re similar that way. So sad, truly.
My memories of Mom fluctuate between fun shopping days, sitting by the lake as she smoked and we ate and fed the ducks, and learning to put my fingers in the back of her throat so she’d throw up.
I really, really hated the feel of her throat against my fingers. I knew that the slimy, wet gagging sensation would only be followed by the smell of vomit and the deplorable sight of her tear-streaked face.