Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 91212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
I feel for the handle on the front door because my vision is blocked by the bathroom tissue, and everything wobbles when I push the door open. I manage to keep it all in my hands somehow and walk toward the kitchen.
"I got those sea salt truffles you like," I yell out in case Faye is close.
I realize as I speak that I forgot to stop by the liquor store, and that means another trip out today because I don't want her mad at me no matter how much I think the woman needs to stop drinking.
Stepping into the kitchen my foot slips out from under me and I topple to the floor, numerous bags of groceries flying before being caught in my arms and falling right back on top of me. Something heavy, probably the damn jar of pickles, smacks me in the forehead hard enough that my vision swims, and as vain as it is, my first thought is that I'm going to have a goose egg on my head for Sadie's memorial. Tears burn my eyes, part from the pain of hitting the floor with my entire body, and part because life shouldn't be this damn hard all at one time.
I free my hands from the grocery bags and lift one to my forehead, panicking when I pull it away and there's wetness coating my fingers.
With my fingers stained red, confusion washes over me. I know I got hit in the head hard, but it didn't feel hard enough to break skin, but the evidence is all over my hand. I swipe at my forehead again just as the scent of copper makes my stomach turn.
A sense of dampness coats my back, butt, and legs, and when I try to sit up fully my hands slip on the tile floor.
Everything in my body stills for half a breath because this doesn't make sense. I dart my eyes around the room until they land on the source of the blood. Crying out and scurrying to Faye, tears make it nearly impossible to see. I attempt to dash them away, forgetting about the blood on my hands until I feel the stickiness transferring to my face. I pull my hands back only a few inches from touching her.
"No," I gasp, feeling completely helpless.
The sane part of me knows there's nothing I can do. The knife protruding from her chest, her paltry skin color, and her sightless stare at the ceiling tell me that she's gone, but the reality of it just won't sink in all the way.
Things like this don't happen to us.
But that's not true either, is it?
My sister was recently murdered, and now Faye.
I scramble away from her, trying as I stand to get the blood off my hands. I know I have to call the police, but I also know I can’t stay here while I do it. Frantically I rush to the front door. I pull it open and scream, but it's Christopher standing there.
"Chris!" I scream.
"What the hell happened? Where are you hurt?"
"N-Not me," I manage, my body beginning to shake uncontrollably. "Faye."
"Faye hurt you?"
I shake my head. "You're here. You said you couldn't make it."
"William texted and said to meet him here. It was an emergency."
Dread and the greatest fear I've ever felt before in my life begin to consume me.
"We have to go," I say reaching out to him to stop him from going further into the house. "We have to leave."
I watch in horror as I grab his shirt, Faye's blood transferring to his clothes. "It's not safe."
He fights against my hold, trying to walk further into the house.
"Christopher!" I scream so loudly that it startles both of us. "William had Sadie killed, and now he's killed Faye. We have to go. He'll hurt us too."
That's the only explanation for getting us all in the same location.
"Come on," he says, wrapping his arm around me and escorting me out the door.
He helps me into the passenger side of my car before making his way around to the driver's side.
"Where do we go?" he asks as he pulls down the driveway.
"I don't know," I answer honestly. "Just get us away from here."
Pulling open the glove box, I grab the stack of napkins from in there and try to get as much of the blood off of me as I can, but it seems like I'm just making even more of a mess. I guess I never really realized that blood smears more than it wipes away, and I feel frantic trying to get it off my skin.
"We have to call the police," I tell him. "Or we can go straight to the police station."
"You look like a murderer covered in blood, Cora," he mutters as he pulls out of the front gate. "We're fleeing the scene of a crime."