Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 126818 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 634(@200wpm)___ 507(@250wpm)___ 423(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126818 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 634(@200wpm)___ 507(@250wpm)___ 423(@300wpm)
“How’d you end up here? We both know you don’t have a penny to your name.”
“Arruw Arrameeth,” he said around the barrel.
“Andrew Arrowsmith?” I pulled the weapon from his mouth. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“He found me in Mexico. Paid for my flight back here. Got me this apartment and told me to get my girl. Said she was in trouble. That you were hurting her. Good guy. Nothing like you.”
Andrew knew Persephone and I had been estranged and tried to take advantage of it.
I wiped away a stray tear that slipped from his eye using the gun. “That, I agree with. Do as I say, and nobody will get hurt. Other than Arrowsmith, but I suppose that’s not your problem, is it?”
He shook his head.
I emptied the gun of bullets, put them into my pocket, then threw the weapon onto the cot he’d used as a bed, next to his phone, walking away.
“Have a nice life, Veitch.” I saluted with my back to him.
He didn’t answer.
He knew there wasn’t a chance of that ever happening.
“My goodness, Tin, how did you get this boo-boo?” I leaned down, brushing a nasty, open wound on Tinder’s knee.
We spent the day together, just the two of us. Joelle and Andrew attended a charity event and decided to only bring Tree, the “normal” child, along. The one who didn’t make any funny noises or made heads turn. Joelle looked guilty when she asked if I could tutor Tinder alone today. I knew the idea to leave him behind didn’t come from her. I couldn’t help but resent her for not fighting for her principles. For her son.
If I could go against one of the most formidable men in Boston—a man I loved—why couldn’t she demand her boy be treated as his brother’s equal?
I vowed to make it a memorable day for Tinder. A treat, rather than a punishment. We went to Sparrow Brennan’s high-end diner for breakfast, where we shoved pancakes and waffles down our throats, then lounged by Charles River, watching the clouds as I told him Greek mythology tales, just as Auntie Tilda used to do with me.
Tinder chewed on the shark necklace I gave him, sniffing as he pointed at an almost identical injury on his other knee.
“T-This one, too,” he stuttered.
I kissed both knees better.
“Let’s go to Walgreens and get super cool Band-Aids for them. What do you say?”
“Y-Y-Yes! Maybe they’ll have Puppy Dog Pals.” His nose twitched. I slipped my hand in his. We walked past the green bannisters, kayaks, and pedal boats. The sun pounded on our faces.
“So what happened?” I asked. “Did you fall off your bike? I hope you know it happens to everyone.”
“No,” he answered quietly. “It wasn’t t-the bike.”
“What was it, then?”
The silence that followed was crammed with the thoughts teeming in my head. Like that weird letter I got from Paxton, that sounded nothing like Paxton, and his mirage-like disappearance, that happened as quickly as his reappearance.
Or how my husband had been avoiding me the entire week, not only refusing to accept my house calls every time I dropped by, but also dodging my text messages. I was days away from showing up at his office and embarrassing us both. The only thing keeping me from doing so was I understood his need to be fully focused on the Green Living lawsuit against Royal Pipelines ahead of the trial.
But I needed to tell him about Paxton. About Andrew Arrowsmith and my plan.
“It was Daddy.”
The words hit me in the chest, cracking it open and spilling a feeling I’d never felt before. Not even to Byrne. Or Kaminski. Or Paxton.
Pure, consuming hatred.
I stopped in the middle of the busy street. A woman walking a French bulldog bumped into us, making a cyclist who whizzed by swear. Ignoring them, I crouched to my knees, holding Tinder’s arms, my eyes leveling with his.
“How did he do this to you?” I asked, in a voice I just barely managed to keep steady.
Tinder looked down, drawing a circle with the tip of his shoe in the sand. He flinched, his movements jumpy.
“I-I-I-I…” He tried, then stomped his foot and bit his tongue. “Oof! I can’t get the words out. N-N-No wonder he hates me.”
“Tinder,” I whispered. He was having a tic attack. The first I’d witness him having. He recoiled in the same manner every few seconds, a repetitive movement, pinching his shoulders together and thumping his head. He couldn’t stop.
“I’m not your father. I’m your friend. You’ve got all the time in the world to tell me what happened. I just want to know so I can help you. You are not in trouble.”
I let him ride the tic out, taking a step back to allow him as much space as possible. The tics subsided after a few minutes, melting into small, familiar nose twitches. I scooped him in my arms, stopped at a street vendor, bought him apple juice and a soft pretzel, and sat him on a bench.