Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
“A person can be happy on their own,” I say.
“Of course they can. Why do you think I never married after Bryce’s dad left? Marriage is work. I always said I’d try it and if it didn’t work out the first time, I wasn’t going to do it again,” she says. “One and done.”
“A woman of her word,” Bryce chimes in.
Lynnette changes the subject, asking her son about some weird sound her car is making. Meanwhile the setting sun darkens the sky minute by minute. I glance back at the house, watching the light in the study go out. A few minutes later, the light above flicks on—Anneliese’s room.
“We should probably get out of your hair,” Lynnette says after following my gaze. She pushes herself up and taps Bryce on the shoulder.
He rises next. “I’ll be around at least two weeks before they ship me off again. Don’t be a stranger.”
“I won’t,” I say.
“Maybe we can grab drinks this weekend?” he asks.
“Yeah. Shoot me a text, and we’ll figure it out.”
I walk the two of them around the house and out to the street, where Bryce’s old Monte Carlo is parked beneath the big oak tree. After sending them off, I head back in and find Anneliese in the kitchen, microwaving a frozen dinner. The summer dress is gone, and in its place is a loose-fitting tank top and polka-dot pajama shorts.
Still hot as hell.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.” She leans against the counter as the microwave hums. Once again, she studies me the way she did earlier in the hall outside her office.
“Sorry. I had no idea they were stopping by, or I’d have given you a heads-up.”
“Not a big deal at all . . .”
The timer beeps, and she turns to retrieve the little black tray of God-only-knows-what. After dumping the steaming contents into a ceramic bowl, she leaves it on the counter to cool.
“So . . . Lynnette told me something,” she says, pressing her lips together.
“I’m sure she told you a lot of things.”
“She said your mom passed in this house.” Anneliese takes her time, choosing her words. “At the bottom of the stairs.”
My jaw clenches. I’m sure Lynnette meant well, but it wasn’t her story to tell.
“She didn’t say much more than that,” Anneliese offers. “We were talking about you, and she said that it was a miracle you were staying under this roof at all, having to walk past the spot where your mom died, living with that reminder multiple times a day.”
“She shouldn’t have said anything.”
“In her defense, she thought you’d already told me. She shut it down when she realized I had no idea, and she told me to ask you about it.” Anneliese shifts. “I told her you tend to clam up anytime I ask you about your childhood or your mom or your past, and that’s when she told me you had a heart of gold . . .”
Ah, so that’s the conversation I walked into earlier.
“Please don’t be upset with her,” Anneliese says. She takes a step closer, reaching for my hand. “Is that why you hate this place so much? Because of what happened to your mom here?”
The image of her body lying crooked at the bottom of the landing is forever seared into my memory.
“Part of the reason, yes,” I finally answer, since Lynnette already let half of the cat out of the bag anyway.
“That would’ve been nice to know,” she says. “Not that I blame you for not talking about it, I just—would it have changed your mind about renovating?
“I don’t know. But it would’ve made it a lot easier to understand where you’re coming from,” she says.
Exhaling, I throw my head back. “I’m sorry, Anneliese, but I don’t have the energy to argue with you about the house tonight.”
“Lachlan,” she says, closing the space between us and squeezing my hand tight. “I don’t want to fight with you. I want to be here for you.”
Her eyes search mine as she lifts her hand to gently cup my face.
“It must have been awful for you,” she says, her voice a broken whisper.
“Donovan pushed her.” I say the words I haven’t said since a lifetime ago. “I saw him. He was angry with her over not letting him go to some pool party, and he shoved her hard. She lost her balance, screamed, tumbled down . . . by the time she hit the landing, she wasn’t moving. The fall broke her neck.”
She clasps a hand over her mouth. “I’m so sorry, Lachlan.”
Little tremors run through my body, as if the story is making its way out of the depths of my memory and into my reality.
“I called 911, but it was too late,” I say. “There was nothing they could do. She was already gone. I’ll never forget the look on my father’s face when he got home from work just in time to watch the paramedics zip her into a black bag. I’d never seen the man shed a tear in my life, and he just . . . collapsed onto the floor, wailing the kind of sound that no kid should ever hear coming from their parent.”