 by J.L. Beck.jpg)
Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 115619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
BIANCA
Blinking my eyes open, I stare up at the popcorn ceiling as the shock from my father's confession still rattles me.
Callum murdered Mom.
It’s not like I expected or even hoped to wake up this morning with anything else on my mind. The sort of bombshell Dad dropped on me last night isn’t something a girl forgets.
It makes no sense. No matter how many times I thought over the situation while nervously cleaning the house last night—because I needed to do something with the energy churning in my gut after I put Dad to bed— I couldn’t figure out an answer to the single most important question that kept coming up. The key to everything.
Why?
Why would Callum want to murder my mom? Outside of being my mother, she wasn’t anyone special—just your everyday average person. Nothing my father told me would lead me to believe she had anything to do with his business. They didn’t even know each other—Tatum and I hadn’t even met until middle school, which was well after Mom died. My frustration mounts. I can’t figure out a way to connect them to make it make sense.
My muscles ache, and I groan as I sit up and throw my arms over my head to stretch. Why did I bother trying to sleep? I spent the majority of the time tossing and turning. I might have gotten a few hours of fitful nightmares, yet no sleep. The nightmares mostly circulated around mom. Before today, I dreamt of her once every few months or so.
They’d always been dreams of ordinary, everyday things like making dinner together or going shopping. I’d wake up and wish I could hug her and tell her how much we both miss her. They were never nightmares. Not until now.
Dad continuously said she died in a car accident when I was eight years old, too young to ask questions. Too busy trying to get over the idea of never seeing her again, of never hearing her voice or smelling her perfume when she hugged me.
You don’t question what your dad tells you at that age, especially when he’s the only person you have left. If there was more to it and he didn’t want to tell me since I was too young, I get it. You don’t convey to a heartbroken little girl that some monster murdered her mom.
Thirteen years have passed since then, and not once did the man think to mention she was murdered.
A look out the window tells me his car is still in the driveway. His bedroom door is still closed when I open mine and peer out into the hall. He’s in there, sleeping off his drunken state. Until last night, I don’t think he’s ever been drunk in front of me. Buzzed, maybe, but never that far. Practically falling asleep sitting up at the edge of the bed, talking nonsense. I genuinely want it to be nonsense. A particular kind of nonsense.
Otherwise, Callum isn’t just the murderer I fell in love with. He’s the murderer who destroyed my childhood and crushed my father’s heart in his fist, changing the entire course of our lives forever.
And worst of all, he lied about it. To think he’s been lying about it the whole time. Unless he’s killed so many people, he can’t keep track of the bodies anymore. I guess that’s seemingly possible. The very idea makes me shudder in revulsion as I wash up, then get dressed.
Not for work, however. I can’t possibly go in today, even if I’ve already missed so much time. I don’t want to lose my job, and I can’t afford to, either. Only there’s no way I’d be able to sit all day and focus on anything except Dad and his confession.
“I'm sorry,” I mumble into the phone, speaking into Sam’s voicemail while setting my toiletries up in the bathroom. “I thought I was ready to return by now, but I'm still shaky. I could always log in from my laptop if you need me today, but I think it's better if I try to work from bed.” I doubt Mr. Adams will expect me to work, but I do want to leave the offer out there. I don't know how much longer I will be able to get away with this. That's the thing about a situation like this: you don't know you've pushed too far until you've already done it, and somebody's pissed at you. I don't want to be the problem child in the office, and if I'm ever going to get a place of my own, I need to stay employed and keep putting those checks away.
I just can't do it today, is all. And not only because I still have to put a little bit of makeup on my cheek to hide what's left of the bruising from the accident that wasn't an accident. It's a good thing I woke up before Dad and got in here before he could see my clean face. I can already imagine his reaction. He’d never let me leave.