Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 125653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 628(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 628(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
Mama’s birthday brunch is tomorrow, and I haven’t heard from Sam in days. Sam, who was supposed to get Mama’s present while I do the cooking. Sam, who promised that she would find Mama something “ah-mazing!” and not to worry about paying her back. Well, I do. Especially since Sam is almost always short on cash. When she’s flush with money, it usually means trouble.
The surface of the dough clings to my palm, and I utter a sound of disgust. Scooping the mass up, I dump it in the garbage and start arranging my mise en place all over again. I’m a professional chef, not a baker, and it shows. But I’m determined to up my game.
My phone dings with a text just as I’m opening a packet of yeast.
Unknown number: Sam, if you don’t get your ass back here in 30 min, I’m calling the police.
It’s such an odd text I can only stare at the phone and frown. I don’t recognize the number, but “Sam” has me hesitating. Weird how I was just thinking of my sister, Sam. Then again, Sam is a common name. This “Sam” might be a dude, for all I know.
Another text lights up my phone.
I mean it. I’m not falling for your “I’m just a sweet little ol’ southern belle” shit anymore. I know you took the watch. You WILL return it.
Now this gives me pause. Many times has Sam accused me of complaining about her sweet little ol’ southern belle act. A glance at the phone also reminds me that it’s April 1.
Rolling my eyes, I dust off my hands and pick up the phone.
This has got to be the lamest April Fools’ joke yet, Sam. At least pretend to be someone other than yourself.
Immediately, I get a response.
Are you shitting me? Mistaken identity? That’s what you’re going with? Cut the crap. Get. Over. Here. Now.
Annoyed, I type back harder than usual.
This isn’t even “Sam’s” number so I’m the one calling bullshit on YOU. Stop with the funny business. I’m busy making Mama’s surprise brunch.
Please. I’ve tasted your cooking. I’d be safer eating canned food.
Oh, that’s just low and uncalled for. I fire back a response.
You know, Sam, you’re kind of acting like . . . an asshole.
There’s a pause, and I can almost feel Sam wondering if she should drop the charade. When she finally answers, it isn’t what I expect.
Did you just quote Sixteen Candles to me?
Well, duh. It’s my favorite film, despite the fact “you” get to star in it.
I have to smile a little. It always stuck in my craw that the main character has the same name as my sister and not me. Something Sam used to needle me with all the time.
Another text makes my phone ping.
That was Delilah’s favorite. You, OTOH, can’t sit still long enough to finish a movie. Stop diverting. Bring me my watch.
I frown. Her response is just weird. Sam never insults herself. Especially with something that’s true; Sam never can sit still for a movie. Something only a few people know. Sam is great at hiding what she perceives as flaws. A short attention span isn’t a flaw in my book, but it certainly is in Sam’s. Tension snakes down my neck and over my shoulders. I don’t like these texts. They aren’t funny, and there’s something off about them.
Enough already. I’m baking. Come up with a better joke.
There’s no response, and I assume that’s the end of that. I grab some flour and begin to measure it out when Sam replies.
Delilah cooks and bakes. Not you.
I don’t want to believe anything other than this is Sam trying to annoy me. She’s an excellent liar—a professional where I am but an amateur. But there’s something about the text, the tone that conveys genuine trepidation, and it has my hackles rising.
My hands are not as steady when I type my response.
That’s because I AM Delilah. (The “der” is implied here.)
There’s another protracted pause. One that I feel in my bones. My stomach clenches as I wait. It doesn’t feel like a prank anymore. But it has to be. Sam is just that evil.
A ding from my phone fills the silent kitchen.
Tater Tot?
I suck in a sharp, pained breath, my fingers tingling. All the oxygen in the room disappears. For a long moment, all I can do is stand in my kitchen, my ears ringing, my body clenched.
Other than Sam, only one person knows Sixteen Candles is my favorite teen film. The only person who would boldly call me that name.
No, I will not think about Macon Saint. Lord knows I’ve tried my best to eradicate him from my brain entirely. But he is like a cold sore, popping up now and then, a painful irritation whether I want him there or not.
It grew worse when he won a starring role on Dark Castle, the series everyone on the planet but me seems to be obsessed with. I didn’t know he was into acting until then. And damn it, I wanted to watch that show. Now, it is all I can do to keep clear of it, what with every person I know talking about it on social media each Sunday night.