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 didn't hurt anyone," I say, my eyes locked on the side of his face as my hands continue to tremble. "I just got home from grocery shopping."
"I know you didn't hurt anyone, but this is a delicate matter."
Confusion clouds my reasoning and I'm a complete mess, but I swear he just sounded like William when he spoke.
"I don't know what to do," he says lifting his hand and running it over his hair. Blood that transferred from me streaks the side of his face, and I somehow realize he's right. What happened and how it looks are two different things. I know that with media coverage and Sadie's death, this is going to look very bad no matter how the police handle the situation which I'm afraid will be make arrests now and work the case later.
"I'll call Eddie," I say, reaching into the back pocket of my jeans and pulling my phone out.
"That's a good idea. He'll know what to do," he says.
"Oh no," I mutter, looking down at my phone.
I tap the screen, but the spider web of broken glass prevents me from doing anything with it.
"It's broken?" he asks, his tone scared and a little manic.
"We can use yours," I say.
"I left mine in my car back at the house," he says, the car decelerating as he pulls to the side.
"What are you doing?"
"We need a phone."
"We can't go back to the house."
"What do we do?" Chris says, his eyes darting all over the place.
"We have to think," I tell him as if just saying it makes it possible with the millions of things running through my head.
I can't seem to fight the chaos in my mind long enough to form a plan.
"I don't know his number," I whisper.
"What?"
"Eddie's number. It's programmed into my phone but I don't have it memorized. We can go to the office. I have an email with his boss's contact information."
"It's business hours, Cora. We can't show up coated in blood."
That makes sense. "We need to go somewhere we can think. We can't just sit on the side of the road."
I know that much at least. I'm not guilty, and it's crazy that we have to act guilty because of how this situation can be perceived.
I feel like a failure to my generation for not having numbers memorized because I've grown too accustomed to having technology right at my fingertips. I'd die the first day in a damn apocalypse situation without a doubt.
"I know a place we can go," he says as he pulls back out onto the road.
I watch him, terrified of what our family has become. His eyes dart to the rearview mirror as if he's scared William is following us.
"I think he killed Petal," I whisper. "I haven't seen her in days."
"I don't understand what's happening," he says, his voice laced with unshed tears, and if he wasn't driving, I'd wrap him in my arms and vow to protect him.
"I don't either," I whisper instead.
The drive gets longer, the miles from our tainted family home growing and growing. I feel Faye's blood drying, tightening my skin, so I sit as still as my traumatized body can manage because the feel of the caked blood cracking when I move threatens to make me sick.
"He was supposed to be in DC," I mutter. "Apparently he lied about that, too."
"He was?" Chris says.
"What did he say over text to get you to come home so quickly?"
I watch as my youngest brother shrugs. "He said there was another family emergency."
I watch the side of his face, sadness swimming inside of me because we'll never be the same after this. Our family is ruined, not only in name but in value.
"Why kill Faye?" I ask out loud because I just can't wrap my head around it.
"I don't know. Maybe she did something to piss him off?"
"He's so meticulous about everything. He's controlled."
"Clearly not," Chris mutters.
Chapter 37
Ace
"Fuck," I snap when I get her voicemail for the fifth time.
"Still having trouble getting a hold of her?" Hemlock asks, from behind the wheel of the SUV.
"I need you to find William Preston," I snap.
"I'm looking," Wren says, his voice coming through the speakers in the SUV.
Although we pulled Elliot Hockley from his bed in the Columbia, South Carolina hotel he was staying in, our little field trip of “tell us what you know” carried us over an hour outside of the city, something that seemed like a good idea at the time, but has done nothing but fucking stress me out since.
"His name shows up on a manifest for a flight to Washington, DC this morning," Wren says.
"So he isn't in town?" I confirm.
"Wait," Wren says, the sound of clicking keys filling the SUV.
"That's not good," Jericho mutters from the back seat as if he can predict Wren is about to give us bad news.