Total pages in book: 158
Estimated words: 156392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 782(@200wpm)___ 626(@250wpm)___ 521(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 156392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 782(@200wpm)___ 626(@250wpm)___ 521(@300wpm)
“Oh, the drama,” I deadpan.
True to his word, Dad finishes the introductions, seals two business deals, and finishes two drinks in the span of an hour and a half.
Then he’s out of the picture, leaving me to deal with the fallout.
I’m thankful for any opportunity that keeps me away from the house as long as possible.
It’s become increasingly difficult to exist around the bane of my existence and not touch her.
Which could be considered an innovative form of torture, if you ask me.
By the time I reach the house, it’s a bit after midnight.
I walk in and pause at the threshold, and that’s not only because of Sam’s and Henderson’s alarmed expressions as they stand by the stairs.
Or the absence of any other staff.
The sound of the cello coming from upstairs fills the space like a haunting doom.
“Why the fuck didn’t you call me?” I snap at Henderson, my ears prickling at the damned sound.
“I did. You weren’t picking up,” he replies.
“How long?”
“An hour,” Sam says.
“Has she been taking her meds regularly? You didn’t skip a day?”
She shakes her head. “Every morning with her strawberry and banana smoothie, and she takes her nightly dose with her usual glass of milk.”
“Fuck.” I climb the stairs two at a time and stop in front of her door. Images from the last time I heard the cello slip into my head, and all of them end with a haunting smile, a scream, and a fuckload of blood.
One, two, three…
It’s under control.
Four, five, six…
She doesn’t remember.
Seven, eight, nine…
At ten, I open the door and stop at the entrance.
My wife is sitting on the bed, facing the window with her back to the door. She’s wearing a baby-pink satin gown, the straps hanging off her pale shoulders, and her hair is tied in a messy bun.
The sad and absolutely lethal sound penetrates my ears like a doomsday song.
She’s nearly wrapped all around the cello as she plays on and on, like a robot.
I walk toward her slowly, carefully even. “Ava?”
No reply.
Not that I was expecting one.
I stop beside her, and a crushing weight lands on my shoulder and stabs my nonexistent fucking heart.
For a long, horrendous beat, she keeps playing, eyes lost, expression muted.
Face closed off.
She looks up at me with the same empty eyes, not blue. Ice.
It’s the stranger again.
The demon who possesses Ava and leaves this hollow being in its wake.
A metamorphosis of failed existence and shrinking presence.
It hasn’t been long. She shouldn’t be having an episode so soon.
And no, there’s no way in hell I’d take Dr. Blaine’s alternative option.
My fingers trace her face, gliding over her cheek and touching her lips. They tremble beneath my touch and she breathes so heavily, I can taste her exhales on my tongue.
A frown appears between her brows and then a curious blush follows.
The bow halts on the strings as her eyes widen. “What are you doing here? Get out, pervert!”
Bloody fucking hell.
A rush of life rips through me and the noose slowly loosens from around my neck.
It’s not the stranger. It’s my fucking wife.
9
AVA
AGE SEVENTEEN
Tension ripples through my veins and my heart thumps so loudly, I’m surprised no one hears the drums of dread besieging me.
I slip through the invitees, wearing my standard smile and acting on my best behavior. A hello here, a how are you? there.
Unfortunately, I register nothing of what they say. Not the chatter, the exchange of empty words, or the fake polite birthday congratulations.
I shuffle my huge tulle skirt that stops above my knees and check my sparkling glitter top to make sure every tiny crystal jewel is in place.
Everything needs to be perfect tonight.
Everything.
“Happy Birthday!” two female voices scream at the same time.
I squeal as I turn around and hug Cecily and Glyn, who are respectively one year older and the same age as me.
“Aw, thanks, sissies!” I pull away to be greeted by their companions. Glyn’s brothers, Lan and Bran—twins, who are four years our senior. They might share the same looks, but they couldn’t be more different. Bran dresses like the posh, elegant boy he is. Pressed khaki trousers, a polo shirt, and a sweater draped around his shoulders. His eyes are a warm blue, kind, and welcoming.
Lan, on the other hand, could rival a serial killer—one of those hot ones. He oozes dark, princely charm and he’s dressed in jeans and a designer blazer that gives him an edge.
Bran hugs me as if I’m his precious little sister, and I wish I had a brother like him in my life. Cecy and I always say Glyn is so lucky to share DNA with him.
“Congrats,” Lan says. “Can’t tell if you’re supposed to look like a princess or a wannabe grunge junkie.”
“You could’ve stopped at congrats, Lan.” Bran pinches his nose.
“Where’s the fun in that, little bro?”