Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 105665 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105665 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Why? Why didn’t Ian say something before yesterday? He knew it was Kessler. He knew Chris was his name. He let Jersey talk about her past and the Russells, but he never said a word.
Why? It made no sense.
She eased onto the bed, thinking of Chris, thinking of Ian … thinking of G. That was it. All the looks, the despair in Ian’s eyes, the admission that he had something to tell her—it wasn’t that he killed the Russells. He was G.
And looking back, the familiarity, the sense that they had an invisible connection that felt bigger than a meet cute at a hot dog stand … it all made sense. Ian had always been her guardian, and on a subconscious level, Jersey knew it.
Hours later, a gentle hand rested on the side of Jersey’s head. She blinked open her eyes.
Max sat on the edge of the bed and smiled. “Hungry?”
“No,” she whispered. Jersey turning down food was a first.
“My husband is a sales rep for a software company. He travels a lot. So do I. It’s what makes our marriage work. Or probably more accurately … not work. I took the job for Ames, watching his kids, during a rough time in my life. You see, we had a five-year-old son. His name was Ian.” She smiled. “Such a great name. He liked to ride his bike up and down our street. It was his first summer riding it without training wheels. I was inside making dinner while my husband pulled some weeds out front and Ian rode his bike.”
She curled her hair behind her ear, looking beyond the bed out the window. “I’ll never forget the moment I heard sirens approaching our street. I dropped the potato peeler and casually dried my hands, making my way to the bay window in our living room. And that’s when I saw it … my husband knelt beside Ian, cradling his limp body. He didn’t come tell me; he didn’t have anyone come tell me. Because he knew Ian was dead. He knew it because his skull was cracked open and he wasn’t breathing. He just knew …”
Max ignored the stream of tears racing down her cheeks as she inhaled a shaky breath. “We don’t even know what happened. Why he rode into the street. The driver of the car said he just veered off the sidewalk so quickly, there was no time to react. Was something on the sidewalk? A worm? Was he chasing a butterfly? Did he just totally lose his balance? We’ll never know.”
“I’m sorry,” Jersey whispered.
Max nodded. “Me too. I … I don’t know a lot. I haven’t since that day. All I know for sure is that bad things happen to good people. That’s it. Nothing profound. Nothing hopeful or inspiring. All these years later, the first thing I think about when I wake up in the morning is Ian. And my heart still breaks. And I still ask why to a god I no longer believe in. I have a husband who I never see. A grave I rarely visit.
“When my life hit rock bottom, I ran away. And sometimes I wonder why my husband doesn’t come for me. Does he think I blame him? Does he think I’m broken beyond repair? Is he? I don’t know the answers to any of these questions. But I know that Ian Cooper would come for you.” She grabbed Jersey’s hand. “He’d give you the kidney.”
Max laughed on a tiny sob and wiped her eyes. “That’s not really my point. My point is … bad things happen to good people. You and Ian … you’re good people.”
A hint of a smile moved Jersey’s mouth as she thought about Ian’s words. We’re terrible people …
Maybe good people could do bad things without being truly terrible.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE
“Shane’s bringing Ian home later.” Max stayed the night with Jersey, helping her take a shower and making her breakfast the next morning.
Jersey sipped her coffee, her leg propped up on a chair.
“Do you care what happens to Chris’s—Kessler’s body?”
Jersey coughed. “I stuck a knife into his skull before slitting his throat. I think we’ve established I don’t care what happens to his body.”
Max nodded, not showing any emotion in her reaction to Jersey’s words.
“He was sick. Mentally not well. That’s what Ian said.”
With a shrug, Jersey shook her head. “Maybe. I don’t know.” She wondered if Ian truly believed that. Jersey did. The way he reacted to being called Kessler—being accused of killing the Russells—it wasn’t defensive. It was denial. Like the idea of it tore him up inside, the way he’d wake from a nightmare. Ian shook Chris’s whole world, scrambling everything where down was up and up was down, and he just … cracked.
Max would never know the truth. She would never know that Ian saved Jersey with a baseball bat. The proverbial kidney. Her rock star was raped and beaten, ridiculed, and treated like a girl—but she would never know. Ian went to great lengths to bury his past. And Jersey tried to unearth it. Wake the dead.