Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 119230 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 596(@200wpm)___ 477(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119230 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 596(@200wpm)___ 477(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
“Mrs. Morgan,” he says, placing a calming hand on her arm and giving me a tight smile.
Mom pulls away from me and hastily wipes her face on the back of her arms, trying to find some composure to speak with the doctor. “Is my baby going to be alright?”
“Yes,” he tells her. “We need to take her for routine testing just to be sure, however we believe this setback has not affected her chances in any way. The most damage would have been from the tubes being pulled from her throat. We can assume some bruising will occur, which we will look out for.”
“How did this happen?” I demand.
“That is the question we have all been wondering, Mr. Morgan,” the doctor says. “The police have been notified and are on their way, and as you can see,” he adds, indicating to the top corner of the room, “there are security cameras in each of our ICU rooms, the hallways, and reception areas. So, I am sure whoever did this will be caught and brought to justice. You have my word on that. The hospital will push for a result.”
“Thank you,” Mom says, her gaze falling back to Addison.
The doctor excuses himself and I walk over to my sister, scooping her hand into mine. I feel her pulse at her wrist and it calms the fear in my chest, but does nothing to ease the burning hot fury. She’s so beautiful, and I hate that I’ve never told her that. We have the typical sibling relationship. She comes into my space and I tell her to fuck off, and when I do the same, she whines to Mom and makes sure I’m punished, but I love her all the same, no matter how much she gets on my nerves.
She looks just like Mom, they’re the spitting image of each other, and with Mom’s need to shoot herself up with botox and have her hair and nails done, they could almost pass as sisters.
Addison’s hair is swept to the side, looking almost freshly brushed, clear evidence of Mom continuously running her fingers through her hair. Seeing her like this destroys me, but with her lying here so calm, I can almost imagine she was just sleeping, tucked in her bed at home without a care in the world.
If it weren’t for Colby Fucking Jacobs.
The asshole will die, and he’ll fucking die tonight.
Releasing her hand, I lay it back by her side, being as gentle as possible before taking a step back. Mom glances toward me, and I swear she can either feel the tension rolling off me or hear my thoughts screaming through my mind. “Tanner, don’t,” she warns. “Don’t do this. I can’t lose both of you.”
But it’s too late, I’m already storming out the door.
In the space of two minutes, I’m already back in my Mustang and flying toward Hope Falls, determination rippling through my body. Riley got me the fucker’s address the same night we learned who he was, and I’m not too proud to say that I’ve done countless drive-bys, casing the area, just hoping for a chance to get my hands on him.
Tonight, it ends.
I pull up in front of Colby’s place, a run-down piece of shit in Hope Falls. It’s falling apart and not worth a damn thing, making it even easier to shove my boot through the front door and watch as it goes flying off its hinges.
I storm into the small three-bedroom home, my nose turned up at the state of things. There are dirty dishes left all over the place and it looks as though it hasn’t been cared for in years. A pungent smell lingers in the air, but I put it to the back of my head as I storm through the house, heading for the bedrooms at the end of the narrow hall.
Gripping the handle of the first room, I turn it and shove my shoulder into it, letting the door fly open and smash into the wall behind it. Peering into the room, I find what looks to be a teenage girl’s room that hasn’t been touched in years, and I realize this must belong to Colby's sister, the single worst mistake of my life.
I hear movement in the room furthest down the hall and quickly make my way to door number two, my anger spurring me on. The door is locked and I waste no time shoving my foot against it and splintering the wood. The door breaks off its hinges and falls to the door, and I race in, roaring with frustration as I find the room just as empty as the last.
“Leave now and we won’t call the police,” I hear, coming from an older man in the hallway behind me. I move out of Colby’s room and stare at the man standing protectively in front of his wife. He looks just like Colby, only thirty years older and wasting his life away on booze and McDonalds.