Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 27300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 137(@200wpm)___ 109(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 137(@200wpm)___ 109(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
“Well... well...” I stammer as horror fills my mind.
My brother shoots me a pitying look.
“You’re such a fucking dipshit, Grace. That man isn’t some journeyman lumberjack who’s temporarily staying in his grandparents’ cabin. That fucker is a homeless squatter! Yeah, the Leon property was sold a while back, and some developer from Vegas is building a fucking lodge on the property. Your dude just snuck in in the middle of the night and made himself at home because he knows they’re not going to evict him while they’re in the middle of construction. So long as he keeps his head down, he’s got a place to stay for a little while at least.”
My stomach falls to the floor, and I feel nauseous. My hands and feet go ice cold as I stare at the yellowed teeth in my brother’s mouth.
“No,” I whisper, tears rising to my eyes. “That can’t be true.”
Robbie smiles evilly, picking at his teeth with a splintered toothpick.
“It is true, Gracie. You’ve been had. You’re so fucking gullible. Didn’t you think to Google your new boyfriend?”
“There’s no reception at the cabin!” I shriek. “I didn’t know!”
“Well, you know now,” my brother chortles. “You’ve been spreading your legs for a homeless squatter. Good on you. Hope you didn’t catch a venereal disease.”
Then, Robbie thrusts a metal bucket at me, as well as a plate of food and a thermos.
“Knock yourself out,” he smirks. “Try not to scream too much.”
The door slams and I’m left alone in my cell again.
“Wait!” I shriek, pounding my fists against the surface with desperation. “You can’t leave me here! I’m your sister!”
But the silence rings in my ears, and I sink to the ground, my head in my hands. What in the world is going on? Why would my brother and father do this to me? Why would they burn our crop, and my home too? And why did Robbie say all those things about Braden? My brother’s claims about the mountain man can’t be true ... can they? Braden loves me, and he made me love him. The alpha male is who he says he is ... unless he’s been lying this entire time.
8
Braden
My teeth grind together as Chief Roscoe knocks on the door of a dilapidated house on the edge of the forest. There’s no sound but I don’t give a shit because I’m going to kick down this door if I have to.
“Patience,” Dave Roscoe warns. “I know you’re invested in this, Mr. Rockwell, but we don’t have a warrant. We need to be invited inside.”
I stare at the chief’s florid face.
“I don’t give a fuck about warrants,” is my growl. “I’ll fucking tear this place apart with my bare hands if I have to.”
The police chief maintains his cool despite my threats.
“I hear you, but the Town of Fairview doesn’t want to be the target of a lawsuit. So we’re going to wait here until they answer.”
“They better fucking answer this door!” I rage in a whisper, the blood in my veins boiling as my hands form into fists. “They have my girlfriend inside! I know it!”
Chief Roscoe shakes his head.
“Now, don’t jump to conclusions. We don’t know that. There was a mysterious fire at the cabin, which took out acres of brush—”
“That fire wasn’t wildfire,” I state in a harsh tone. “You know it was arson, and now my girlfriend’s missing!”
Chief Roscoe’s about to reply when the door creaks open, and a seventy-year-old man peers out at us. His teeth are yellow and tobacco-stained and I can count the number of white hairs on his forehead. The man wears beat-up overalls like he’s out of Howdy-Doody, and his fingernails are black with grime.
“Chief Roscoe,” he says with a rattle to his voice. “What brings you here?”
“It’s good to see you, Jim,” the chief replies. “We have some questions about the fire up the hill. It was on your property, I believe, and the town wants to make sure that everything’s fine, especially since California’s been ravaged by wildfire recently. Can we come in?”
The old man shoots me a suspicious glare.
“No. Who’s this?”
“This here is Braden Rockwell,” the chief adds in a smooth tone. “Mr. Rockwell is an expert in fire safety. He’s got a lot of experience and actually happens to live just up the hill from your property. You’re neighbors.”
The old man looks at me craftily, and then grins. Literally, a ghastly smile breaks out across his face.
“Neighbors, hmm?” he sing-songs while stepping back to allow us entry. “You said your name was Rock?” he inquires like he doesn’t know.
“Yes, Braden Rockwell,” I respond in a deep tone.
“And where are you from?” Jimbo simpers.
“Here and there,” I say vaguely. “I work all over.”
The old man nods, trying to appear sage, as we step into a dilapidated sitting room. There’s a massive flat screen on the floor, and a sad, patchy couch in front of it. The walls are water-stained and the windows sag in their frames. The entire place stinks to high heaven of pot, but it seems they’ve sprayed air freshener to try and mask the smell.