Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 95453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 382(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 382(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
That’s stupid. How would she, with my face covered? Somehow, deep down, I get the feeling she would know. The connection we have—our ugly, dirty connection—would ensure she knew I was the one watching from a distance, lurking in the shadows, watching her every move and trying to understand what she was whispering.
I should stop. I know I should. That’s probably what every addict tells themselves before their next drink, their next pill, or the next time they slide a needle into a vein. Just one last time, and then I’ll stop. I keep telling myself the same thing. But there’s a difference between me and those addicts. I don’t believe myself. I know I’ll have to see her again.
She gets into Colt’s car, and they pull away. He’s in a hurry, like he can’t wait to get out of here. I can’t blame him. I don’t like coming here either, especially knowing there’s a headstone with my name on it up ahead.
It’s too bizarre. I’m dead to the world. A ghost walking the streets night after night. Watching her, watching him, watching life go on without me. Like now, stepping out of the tree line only when I’m sure no one will see me. Stepping into sunshine that doesn’t touch my face, thanks to the hood pulled over my head.
There are flowers at Amanda’s grave—and mine. I step closer, almost surprised to see white roses sitting at the base of the marble slab that bears my name and the dates of my birth and supposed death.
In a way, I did die that day. The Nixon Alistair the world knew ceased to exist once the house went up in flames. He’s miles away from the man I am now. The old Nix is barely a memory that gets fainter every day. I can’t remember being him when my current life is so completely different.
Why did she leave flowers for me? Her mom, sure, but me? After everything I did to her? Even now, months later, my body responds to the memory. I should be repulsed; I know I should. But the opposite is true. My pulse races, hunger slithers through me, and my dick hardens when I remember the dark pleasure I took from Leni’s body. Again and again.
Maybe I deserve to be dead.
I can’t hang around here too long. This is a newer part of the cemetery, meaning there are more visitors here than in the older sections. The grief is fresher. Over time, it fades. People forget. Graves get overgrown.
What about the people nobody mourns? Because I’ll never mourn my father. I don’t even think of him as my father after what he did.
That’s why Bradley and I went to the house that day and set the fire.
It was his idea. That’s the one piece of truth I cling to, the way I cling to everything else as I leave the cemetery on foot. I’ve done a hell of a lot of walking these past months, ever since I snuck out of the hospital where everybody knew me as John Doe.
I’m supposed to be dead, so I can’t just go out and buy a car. Still, I’ve made enough connections to pick up a used model with cash sometime soon. I doubt Colt could trace my bank activity, so there’s no danger in withdrawing cash. He hasn’t noticed it so far.
But I can’t keep this up forever. I know that. Eventually, Colt will find me, or I’ll take one risk too many and be discovered.
He already knows I’m not dead—he keeps emailing me, updating me on his life. Not every day, but a few times a week. I access the messages at the public library. Of all the things I miss from my old life, a smartphone might be the hardest to live without. But it’s too traceable. I can’t take that risk.
For so many reasons.
For starters, there’s Bradley’s charred remains lying in my grave. Nobody would believe me if I told them the fire was his idea. I still see his wicked grin in my mind’s eye. “You can teach the bastard a lesson.” I never told Bradley the details of the shit Dad made us do or what he did to Mom, but he knew I hated the son of a bitch.
Even now, knowing Dad’s dead and gone, just thinking of him makes my fists clench in my pockets as I walk with my head down and my shoulders hunched. It’s become a habit, hiding myself from the world, making it so they don’t have to look at me.
If it weren’t for the constant craving to see Leni again, I might never leave my apartment. It’s not worth risking people seeing me—wincing, immediately looking away. That’s the thing about people trying to be kind: they end up being the most hurtful. Someone like me, someone who used to take good looks for granted and revel in the attention he got from girls… the ultimate punishment is people feeling too sorry for me and too disgusted by me to stare too long at my face.