Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 131455 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131455 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Any hint of anger evaporates once I see her covering her hands with her face. If an artist tried to capture the essence of grief, they couldn't do better than what I see once I climb out of the car and watch from over the roof. There she is, my little bird, crumbling under the weight of her pain. Her slumped shoulders shake with unfathomable emotion. Nobody needs to tell me whose grave she's kneeling at.
She can't know about my connection to Jessica's murder. She can't. Only Romero and I know about that, and we're still working with theories. There's no solid proof of who pulled that trigger. Still, my heart clenches in fear that takes time to ease. I'm being paranoid, imagining ghosts in the shadows. This isn't the time for my imagination to run away from me.
What would bring her here? That's a stupid question which doesn't take much thought to answer. She's missing her mother, probably now more than ever. There must be questions, along with fears and concerns, she doesn't feel comfortable bringing to me—or wouldn't if she was speaking to me, which she still isn't.
I've never carried a baby and was shamefully absent for most of Amanda's pregnancy. We lived under the same roof, but I was too busy building what would become my empire. I couldn't be bothered with doctor's appointments and shopping for furniture, aches and pains, or cravings. Tatum owned my heart the moment we locked eyes, however. Still, before then, I didn't think much about everything that went into bringing her into the world.
That's on me. That's something I will have to live with, along with so many other mistakes and oversights.
Even if I had been more present, there's no substitute for firsthand experience. I don't know how it feels to carry life the way Bianca can. I can't relate to what it means, bringing a life into the world that she wasn't ready for. This should be a joyful, happy time in her life, and I took that away from her—that and so many other things. In my life, I feel guilty for very few things, for if I allowed myself to feel remorse for all the things I've done, it would kill me.
Nonetheless, the guilt I feel for hurting Bianca. Nothing touches that pain. It's one I feel with every beat of my heart, every breath of air into my lungs. I did this to keep her at my side, but inevitably it was the one thing that pushed her the furthest away.
I can't help how my feet automatically take me to her, carrying me through the thick grass. She can hate me all she wants, but there is no chance of me standing by and watching her suffer without at least letting her know I'm here. I'm finally starting to understand I can't take the pain she feels away, but I can ask her to lay some of it on my shoulders.
I have rushed into buildings knowing a gunman could be waiting for me to enter. I've faced virtually every form of threat known to man. All that was nothing compared to this, approaching the woman I love with every ounce of me. There's no guarantee of how she'll react or if following her here is the last straw. I would have to accept that if it is. She's not going to get me to change my fundamental nature.
I don't know what alerts her to my presence. There's no snapping of a twig, no sudden disturbance to make her lift her head and look around. I'm standing downwind, so I doubt she picks up the smell of my cologne. Whatever it is, it leaves her staring at me, her expression bleak, tearful.
“What are you doing here?” she asks with a soft, defeated sigh. There's no surprise, no attempt at defending herself as I slowly approach.
“Following you.”
Another sigh. “Of course you were.” The disdain in those four words leaves me bristling, while at the same time I feel roughly two inches tall. How does she manage to do that?
“What do you want me to do?” All she does is turn her face away, which is relatively harder to deal with than if she had hurled insults at me. “In case you've forgotten—and I know you haven't—you were kidnapped recently. And all you were doing was something as innocent as going to work. Excuse me if, in the days after that, I overreacted and installed a tracking system on your car.”
“Once again,” she seethes, still looking away, “you did it without talking to me about it.”
“I did what I thought was right. The only things that matter to me are you, our baby, and the safety of you both.”
Those magic words send her head swiveling around, eyes blazing. “That isn't the point, Callum. Don't you get it? I'm not even arguing the idea of having you track my car. I understand why it makes you feel more secure after what happened. And honestly, I wouldn't mind you always knowing where my car is when I leave—even though I don't necessarily love the idea of you being able to follow me around. Besides, tracking my car wouldn't have helped things.”