Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86857 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86857 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
“Josie, you’re such a creeper,” Colten mumbled without stopping his fingers.
I sighed and sat next to him on the piano bench, facing away from the keys. “Why are you playing such a sad song?”
“Why is it sad?”
“Because it’s slow. It’s funeral music.”
“Have you been to a funeral?” He stopped playing and angled his body toward mine.
“No.” I frowned. “Not yet anyway. Nobody I know will die.”
His head jutted backward. “That’s mean. You sound like you want someone to die so you can go to their funeral.”
“I’m curious. That’s all. I don’t want someone to die. Not like those boys in Colorado, who killed the kids at their school.”
Oops … I may have broken my promise to my parents.
“My mom said they were sick. Not like a cold. Like something was wrong with their brains,” Colten said.
“Psychopaths. I stopped by the library and looked it up. Don’t worry. You’re not a psychopath.”
“I know I’m not. But … how would you know?”
“Because you say sorry a lot, and you mean it. I say sorry too, but I don’t always mean it. But if you died, I would be sad. So I know I’m not a psychopath either. But I’ve been thinking a lot about it. Do you think Richie Gregg is one? He’s mean to everyone. When he gets in trouble, he doesn’t care. And his dad smokes in the car when he picks Richie up from school. My dad said parents who smoke in the car with their kids don’t care about their health. So if Richie’s dad doesn’t care about his son, he probably doesn’t care about other people either, which means Richie might be like his dad.”
And just like that … I equated smoking to being a psychopath. Sure, some days I was too smart for my own good, but at twelve, I think I was, more times than not, too dumb for my own good.
“My grandpa smokes around Chad and me, but he’s never killed anyone,” Colten said.
“Not all psychopaths are killers. But my dad said secondhand smoke can kill you, so it’s possible your grandpa could kill you by accident. I don’t think they’d arrest him. My dad said a woman accidentally backed over her daughter while pulling out of the garage. The girl died, but the mom didn’t get arrested because it was an accident.”
“Did you finish your homework?”
I frown. “I don’t have homework.”
“What about your report on an American president?”
“I did it yesterday after school.”
“You finished it in one day?”
I nodded. “Are you done?”
“No. I have to finish it tonight.”
“I thought we’d go to the park.”
“Can’t. I have to finish my paper.”
“I’ll finish it. Who’s it on?”
Colten’s face soured. “You can’t write my paper for me.”
“Why not?”
“Because we could get in trouble.”
“Who’s going to know?”
Colten’s lips twisted. “It’s Taft.”
“Taft? Why did you choose Taft? Because he was the only president to serve both as President and as Chief Justice?”
Colten blinked several times. “No. Because I like his mustache.”
I snorted. “Are you serious?”
He shrugged.
“Fine. Show me your three sources. I’ll write it, and then we can go to the park.”
“I think this is wrong.”
“Wrong is what those boys in Colorado did. This is no big deal.”
“Why do you keep talking about those boys?” He opened his backpack and pulled out a black three-ring binder.
“Because it’s interesting.”
“It’s awful.”
“Awful things can be interesting. Why do you think they make us study wars in history?”
“Because they’re interesting?”
I took his binder and grinned. “No. Nice try. We study bad things, so we don’t repeat history. You don’t listen in class, do you?”
Colten frowned. “History is boring. Nobody listens.”
I listened, but I didn’t have time to explain my school habits. I had a report to write so Colten could go to the park with me. There wasn’t much I wouldn’t do for the boy next door.
CHAPTER THREE
My future of marital bliss is off to a great start. I lied to Colten. He thinks I’m meeting with a specialist at the university. A specialist in reincarnation. If he were here to see the run-down strip mall in front of me, he’d lose his shit.
The door reads: Psychic. Walk-ins welcome. Estimated wait time is eternity.
I pull on the handle, but it’s locked.
“Come in.”
I glance up at a camera mounted in the corner just as the lock to the door clicks and buzzes.
Oof …
The pungent smell of incense just about knocks me over.
“Welcome, Josephine.” An older woman with witchy silver hair takes a bow. When she stands erect, her lips part into a slight smile. They’re dry lips sticking to brown-stained teeth. Her cough isn’t that of a smoker’s. It’s more of a death rattle.
“Thanks.” I glance around the room. There’s a black ceiling dotted in stars and moons hanging from fishing lines. Two round velvet pillows reside in the middle of the wood-floored room. White painted clouds cover the baby blue walls.