Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 93453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
“You literally just made it my business by answering my questions.” He chuckles as he pours himself a cup of steaming coffee.
“Are we going to be gossiping all day long?” I ask, and he shrugs.
“It’s Saturday, so not much to do on the weekend. We can gossip.”
“How about we get to work?” I turn on my heel and walk to the stall that’s become my habit of checking on first thing in the morning. “Good morning, beautiful girl.” She is lying on her side. “Aren’t we being lazy this morning?” I put the mug down on the floor before opening the stall and going to pet her. “Did you have a good night?” I ask her. “I did.” I walk over to grab her pail of water, walking out with it and heading over to get some fresh water.
I muck her stall before taking the hose to wash some of it out when I hear my name being paged. “Charlie, Charlie.” Emmett’s voice fills the barn and the outside of the barn. “You have someone here for you.” Instead of clicking disconnect, I hear him slam down the phone.
I walk out of the stall, putting my gloves in my back pocket and seeing Emmett standing there with a man. “What’s up?” I ask him. The guy turns around, and I see it’s the man from the bar.
“You got someone who would like a word,” Emmett says, standing next to me.
“Hi, Mr. Barnes,” he greets, “my name is Darren Trowel.” He reaches out his hand to give me a business card, and I look down at it. “I’m a reporter for a New York magazine called The Future and the Past.” I look back up at him. “We are doing a special article on the Cartwright accident, and I’d love to ask you some questions about it.”
“Sure,” I say, surprising Emmett, who just looks over at me. “Why don’t you come to my office?” I turn and walk toward my office. He follows me in there, and I can see the snide smile on his face.
I walk around my desk, tossing the card on top of it, as he takes a seat in the chair. “What exactly is this article about?” I pull out my chair and sit down.
“Well, Mr. Barnes,” he starts, “we’re doing a follow-up, sort of a ‘where are they now’ piece.” I don’t say anything. I just wait for him to talk. “How the accident changed your life. What hardships came from it. We also would like to know its fallout with Autumn Thatcher.” I cross my hands. “There was speculation that she lied under oath. We were wondering about the events that led up to the crash. Things that haven’t really been discussed.”
“Kind of hard to lie about an autopsy that was performed twice, don’t you think?” I ask him, trying to keep my anger in check and not freak out and give him anything. “They did a private one, and we were lucky that the coroner never flushed out the blood that was collected at the morgue when he was brought in. Then the court found out about the discrepancy and requested another one.”
“Right,” he says, ignoring my point. “Do you think she did it as a vendetta against the Cartwrights?”
“Is this a piece about how our lives are since then or is this a piece about how wrong the Cartwrights were?” I ask him the question, waiting to see what he says. His body gets tight for a minute, and then he relaxes into it.
“We are just trying to get a different angle of the story,” he explains, and my skin prickles at the back of my neck. A bad vibe is just rolling off him, and something definitely feels off about him.
“I’ll tell you what, Mr. Trowel.” I pick up his card. “How about you email me the questions you want to ask me, and I’ll have my attorney look at them, and then I’ll get back to you.” Disappointment registers all over his face as I put the card down and start to get up.
“I would think that with everything Ms. Thatcher did to you, you would be willing to give your side of the story.”
“Ms. Thatcher wasn’t the one driving the truck,” I remind him, my teeth clenched together tight. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you.” I hold out my hand, and he shakes it before walking out of the office and down the hallway to the front door. I stare out the window at him getting into his rental car, and only when he’s out of the parking lot do I take the phone out of my pocket and scroll down to the number I’m looking for.
He answers after half a ring. “Charlie,” he says and I can see the smile fill his face.