Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 119597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 478(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 478(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
When we turn into another hallway, he pauses, looking at the ceiling, his eyes darting around as if searching for something.
The nurse continues on, unaware of our stop.
Without warning, he grips my arm and the IV pole and steers me into an alcove, hidden from the prying eyes of passersby and, more importantly, away from the hospital’s ever-watchful cameras.
If I wanted to fight him, I would lay his ass out. But curiosity gets the best of me.
He senses my cooperation and quickly releases my arm. His face remains close, inches from mine.
We’re the same height. Same build. He’s lost weight, like me. When I saw him in that video, he had muscle mass, an impressively honed physique. Like I once did.
We have the same black hair, same bone structure, same resting scowl, strong nose, and stern brow. But my eyes are my mother’s. I don’t remember her, but Denver always mentioned it. He called them dark, soulful eyes. It still makes me shudder.
Monty sizes me up in the same manner I measure him, examining my features as shadows of emotion dart across his.
Does he see Kaya or himself when he looks at me?
The air shifts, spiking with tension, right before he asks, “Did you fuck my wife?”
A silent alarm rings through my mind. I desperately want to ignore it and hit him with the truth.
Instead, I fire back, “Did you fuck my mother?”
I don’t expect an answer, but the accusation seems to suck the life out of him.
He deflates, takes a step back, and chokes, “No.”
“You and I share blood. That much is certain. If you’re not my father—”
“I’m not.” Sudden anger flashes in his eyes. “That would be impossible.” His denial is firm, vehement. “I loved Kaya. We grew up together, but she was too young…I never touched her. Christ, you look so much like her. Your mannerisms, the way you carry yourself, your eyes…” His hands clench and unclench at his sides, betraying the frustration and disbelief simmering beneath his composed exterior. “I haven’t seen her in twenty-five years. How old are you?”
“Twenty-five.”
“If we’re related, it’s because Denver is your father. He was obsessed with Kaya since she was…very young.” His words cut through the tension, a confession that lays bare the disgusting nature of Denver’s evil.
“How young?”
He pauses, swallows. “It started when she was eight.”
Horror wraps cold fingers around my throat, squeezing tight.
He’s not just telling me that Denver molested my eight-year-old mother. He’s testing my reaction to see if I was a victim of the same abuse.
I open my mouth—to confirm or distract, I’m not sure—when I’m abruptly cut short.
“There you are.” The nurse, oblivious to the turmoil she’s interrupting, appears at the entrance to the alcove. “Radiology is just a few doors down.”
She beckons, her gesture insistent, pulling me back toward the task at hand, the X-ray that feels inconsequential in the emotional storm Monty and I are weathering.
As I follow her, casting a glance back at him, the questions and what-ifs pound in my head. But for now, they’ll have to wait.
She leads me into a lifeless, echoing chamber, where the walls are too white, the lights too bright, and there’s a hum in the air that sets my teeth on edge.
The X-ray machine looms over me, a giant of steel and technology that buzzes with unseen energy. It’s intimidating, this behemoth that can peer through flesh and bone. Makes me stand a little straighter under its gaze.
While the technician adjusts my leg for the images, Monty lingers in the waiting area, watching me through the doorway with his penetrating, blue eyes.
He claims he’s not my father, and my gut believes him.
But is he right about Denver?
I took you because I hated you. Hated you with every breath. Until I couldn’t. Until I loved you most of all.
I’m desperate to know more about my mother and her relationship with Monty and Denver.
The technician’s instructions to hold still and breathe normally float in the background of my swirling thoughts.
Kaya grew up with Denver and Monty.
On Kodiak Island.
My namesake.
I want to know everything, and the only person who holds the answers is the man who intends to take away my world.
Frankie.
The yearning to return to her side, to see her safe, torments me relentlessly as the machine whirs and clicks.
Throughout the procedure, I can’t stop thinking about how far removed this is from anything I’ve ever known.
Back home, healing was a matter of patience, a splash of vodka, maybe some makeshift stitches—primitive but effective. Here, technology takes the lead, offering efficient and utterly incomprehensible solutions.
Despite the cold, impersonal nature of the machine and the room, I’m profoundly grateful. This strange, whirring contraption represents a chance at healing properly, at ensuring that my leg won’t keep me from protecting and providing for Frankie.
Stepping out of radiology, the clinical hum of the hospital envelopes me once more.