Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 128742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
“Bloody hell. If that’s not a curse.”
I sigh. “With that said, I still have no idea if any of that is relevant to my mystery woman.”
“Makes for a good story, though. I hope you figure it out. I’m invested now.”
“Ahem,” someone clears their throat.
Jamie and I glance toward my doorway, where Jack stands, shirtless as usual. His abs are insane. It’s hard to look at them sometimes because they melt my brain.
And my panties.
“Well, don’t you look cozy,” he drawls. His amused smile doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Am I interrupting?”
“Abbey here was giving me a crash course on the Tulleys of yore.”
“So what you’re saying is you didn’t place our dinner order.”
“Forgive me, darling. I forget how cranky you get on an empty tummy.” Jamie slides off my bed.
“Call me when dinner comes,” I tell the guys. “I’ll be up here working on this proposal till then.”
After they leave, I open a fresh Word doc to start my research proposal. With a subject this rife with drama and intrigue, my assignment definitely won’t be boring.
In class the following morning, we each take turns presenting our proposals for our professor. Beside me, Amelia cringes and sinks into her seat as we listen to the third student describe their intent to investigate the history of Brexit. Our professor, who hasn’t twitched a muscle in several minutes, grows more violently quiet with each unoriginal rehash of the same topic.
For his part, the student standing at the front of the class seems suitably chastised as he squeamishly describes his research objectives, wishing desperately to burst into ash and float out the AC vent.
After he’s concluded and rushed to cower in his seat, Professor Langford turns to address the class from front row center.
“Anyone else going to get up to talk about Brexit?”
Wisely, no one raises their hands.
“You have until Wednesday to propose any other subject or take a zero.”
Thus commences a furious cloud of keyboard clicks as far more than three students begin googling other topics.
With a traumatized sigh, Langford asks for the next volunteer. Amelia confidently thrusts her hand in the air. A moment later, she holds court at the front of the room, telling us about the band of French prostitutes who, during the revolution, acted as spies and assassins for the cause of liberation. They were famous for their ferocity and violence, rumored to have worn pearl-like earrings and pendant jewelry carved from the teeth of their victims and even leather bracelets made of human flesh.
A visibly relieved Langford approves Amelia’s proposal without question.
“That’s fucked-up,” I tell Amelia when she retakes her seat beside me.
“Isn’t it gruesome?” She flips open a folder to show me paintings and illustrations depicting the antics of the killer prostitutes. “So my vibe.”
I don’t have anything quite so bloody, but when it’s my turn to present, I try to paint a picture for my professor. Of a family a hairbreadth from the throne struck by tragedy, mystery, and scandal. An epic downfall of the rich and famous. And of a woman in a discarded portrait.
“There’s no shortage of contemporary sources regarding the modern Tulleys,” Langford says, considering my proposal.
I nod in agreement. The divorces, drug addicts, and assorted scandals are well-known tabloid fodder, I’ve discovered.
“Less so for the early twentieth century,” she adds.
I project one of my photos of the painting for the class. As expected, no one has the slightest idea who she might be.
“She would have been important to have been painted by Dyce,” muses the professor. “If you can authenticate the painting is indeed one of his.”
Shit.
The possibility of a fake hadn’t even occurred to me. I’m not sure if that would make my project more or less interesting. Still, the professor approves my proposal, and I know I’m in good shape regardless of whether I solve the mystery of the painting. Based on the several avenues for research—the missing Tulley, the drowned Tulley, and the family’s fall from grace—something is bound to be worth writing about.
I think about it all day, spending my evening at the Talbot Library trying to track down as many books as possible that mention the Tulley clan. Not even the library warden can bring down my spirits. Mr. Baxley and I are old friends now. As in I chat his ear off and he stares back stone-faced. It’s less a give-and-take friendship than a give-and-glare. He’ll come around.
When I waltz through the door of the flat later, it’s past eight o’clock and my stomach is growling with accusation. I always forget to eat when I’m at the library.
“Abbey! Babe! Get in here now!”
Lee’s urgent declaration has me racing into the living room, only to skid to a stop at the sight of him. He’s sprawled on the couch, a glass of red wine in one hand and a shoulder-length platinum blond wig on his head.