Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
I deal with a lot of grief in my job. I talk to families daily, explaining what and sometimes why something happened to their loved ones. But suicide doesn’t usually come with a clear “why” answer. “I know you weren’t there.”
Colten returns his attention to me. “My mom told me you were at the funeral.”
With a slow nod, I shut off my computer. “I wasn’t there for you.”
He grunts. “Of course you weren’t. Nobody gave a shit about me, especially my dad.”
“How rich of you to play that part.”
“What part?” Those monster-like eyes narrow at me.
“You’re fine with people being shit on as long as it’s not you.”
Colten’s dark brows lift a fraction. “Oh, this is about that? You think I shit on you.”
I know he shit … shat … crapped all over me.
“I’m referring to your mom and brother. When you don’t show up to be with them—the living—that’s pretty shitty. Even for you.”
“I visited them the following week. I helped go through his stuff.”
I open my mouth to say more, exchange another barb, but I close it just as quickly. “Detective Rains has everything you need to know. And for the record, I was right about the weapon. And if you find it, and it has a red handle and a six-foot cord, I expect something like a fruit and chocolate bouquet with a note that says I’m the goddamn queen of forensic pathology.” Standing, I sling my bag over my shoulder, give him a tight-lipped grin, and fish my keys out of the side pocket.
“I knew you were smart to a fault, Watts. But this…” Colten stands and takes several steps toward the door before glancing over his shoulder “…is a godlike arrogance I never saw coming from you. I imagine you’re a pain in the ass to work with. We should grab dinner sometime.”
“Can’t. I’m busy.” I usher him out the door so I can close and lock it.
“I didn’t say when.”
“I know.” I pass him on my way to the stairs. “I meant I’m busy never having dinner with you. Not having dinner or any interaction with you outside of work is officially my new pastime.”
“Jesus, Watts. You’re still boring as fuck if avoiding me is your pastime. But I’m flattered that you’re spending so much time thinking about me. Feels like old times.”
I race down the stairs. “I’m not thinking about you. I’m actively not thinking about YOUUUUUU!” My foot catches and I fall down the final four steps.
My head. Oh, my aching head. My fingers reach for the laceration at my temple.
“Josie, just … don’t move. You could have broken something.” Colten flies down the stairs after me.
I broke something alright. My pride, her sister Dignity, and Dignity’s cousin Self-Esteem. It’s taken Colten less than a week to reduce me to the young, shattered-ego girl I was the day I left for college. He’s a perpetual thorn in my side. He’s necrotizing fasciitis—a flesh eating infection that can’t be contained.
“I’m fine.” I search for my feet to get them under me so I can make another mad dash.
“You really need to hold still and let me call for help.”
“When you…” standing, I grimace “…finish medical school, I’ll let you give me advice on my health. In the meantime, just stay away. You’re nothing but bad luck.”
“Are you blaming your clumsiness on me?” Colten’s jaw unhinges like I offended his fragile, Good Samaritan soul.
I blame everything bad in my life on Colten Mosley. Always have. Why stop now?
As I dig into my bag for a tissue, Colten grabs my arm and pulls me toward the restroom. The men’s room.
“Let go of me. I don’t appreciate being manhandled.”
“Really?” He opens the door and forces me inside without checking for occupants. Luckily there are none. “Huh. You used to love my hands on you. Handling you.”
Asshole.
“I have an open wound, and you think the best idea is to get me closer to urinals?”
He grabs a wad of paper towels and runs them under the water. “I’m pretty sure I can assess your wound and decide if you need stitches without an actual medical degree. Basic first aid training, Watts. Or did you become a forensic pathologist because you couldn’t save lives? Did you get demoted to the morgue? Can’t kill anyone if everyone’s already dead.”
“Asshole.” I could only keep it in my head for so long. He’s the worst! And when I’m in his presence, I’m the worst version of myself too.
“You remember what I used to do when you called me that?” He presses the wet towels to my injured head.
He used to kiss me. I’d get mad. Call him an asshole. And he’d kiss me until I lost all my fight. He called me a stubborn overthinker. As if one can really think too much.