Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 113944 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113944 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
“You handled that well,” said Donnie, her foster uncle. He was ex-military and the ultimate conspiracy theorist. He was also a little unstable and often disappeared in the woods for days at a time, “on patrol.” Donnie felt more at ease outside, surrounded by nature.
The locals thought of him as an eccentric, and he let them believe that because it meant they underestimated him. The truth was that Donnie was extremely intelligent and a strategic mastermind.
“You didn’t think to shoot at their feet to scare them off?”
He rolled his eyes. “I had my gun trained on them the whole time; you were never in any real danger. You don’t need my help anyway.”
That was because he’d trained her to defend herself. He’d also trained her to use many of the weapons he’d stashed—some of which she was pretty sure Uncle Sam would want back, especially the rocket launchers. When she’d asked why he had all the weapons, he’d simply said, “Just in case.”
Pulling a leaf out of his fuzzy salt-and-pepper hair, Donnie looked in the direction in which the boys had disappeared. “The Moores are scared. They thought you’d back down by now, and they’re starting to panic because they have no idea what it will take to make you do it.”
Nothing would make her back down.
“What I want to know is how they’re managing to electronically mess with you. Draining your back account, maxing out your credit cards, and canceling your cell phone contract—that takes skill.” He shook his head, lips thinning, and began to pace . . . and she sensed one of his rants coming.
“You know, this kind of thing happens too easily because we have the Internet,” he insisted, words coming fast and sharp. “Now it’s so simple to invade people’s privacy using spam, viruses, and Trojan horses. I’m telling you, the Net is evil. It has no ethical guidelines. Think of all the child pornography, cyberbullying, and websites that actually promote suicide—”
“Donnie.”
“—and encourage depressed teens to make suicide pacts. Not that the CIA, FBI, or any other organization cares. Oh, no. They’re too busy spying on us using—”
“Donnie.”
His expression cleared, becoming one of total calm. “Hmm?”
She sighed. “You coming inside?”
He lifted his gun. “I want to check the little pricks have left first.”
“All right. Be careful.” Pulling open the front door, she winced at the squeak of the hinges. She would have oiled them, but most of the guests came to experience what it was like to stay in an allegedly haunted house. They seemed to like hearing creaks, thuds, squeaks, and other weird noises.
Was the place haunted? Well, plenty of people believed so. Gwen wasn’t gonna lie, there was something in the house. A few somethings, actually. It was rumored that they were the spirits of a man and his two teenage daughters who’d died in a fire long ago. She’d never gotten the feeling that there was anything malevolent about them. They just seemed nosy and bored.
She was also betting they enjoyed spooking the guests, because many claimed to have “felt a presence,” heard someone pacing on the third floor, or seen shadows moving around. Some guests had been so freaked out, they’d actually packed up and left earlier than planned.
Not all were believers, though. Some had complained that it wasn’t as haunted as they’d hoped—one even whined that it didn’t smell haunted. If by that he’d meant it didn’t smell dusty and moldy, he was right. The place smelled like fragrant oils, wood polish, and lavender air freshener. She was happy for it to stay that way.
Humming to himself, her foster brother came striding down the hall with a mug of hot chocolate topped with whipped cream. Marlon cocked his head, nose wrinkling. “What’s with the bat?”
She headed up the stairs as she replied, “It’s Brandt’s. He, Rowan, and Mack were going to vandalize my truck. I wasn’t down with that.”
“They came again?” Marlon followed her, listening as she gave him a quick rundown of what had happened. “They’ll be back. Brandt’s too used to his father buying his way out of trouble to care if he takes it too far.”
“Yep,” agreed Gwen, reaching the second floor. “It’s probably why Brandt doesn’t have any sense of right and wrong.” She walked straight to her room and went inside, leaned the bat against the wall, and—passing her cluttered dresser, overfull laundry basket, and half-open closet—sank onto her unmade bed.
Gwen rolled her shoulders, sighing. Noticing the angry flush on Marlon’s dark skin, she decided to change the subject. “I like the shirt.” He always looked like he’d just come back from a photo shoot. He was also as camp as Christmas, much like his boyfriend. “In fact, I like the whole outfit. It’s not fair that you can so effortlessly look cool and stylish.”
He smiled, pleased. “It’s all about accessorizing and color coordination. I’m good at it, for someone who’s color-blind.”