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)
This is a coup. I’m being ambushed again!
I think Mom’s going to cry.
Dad? Nope. No tears in his eyes. He clears his throat and eases his fork onto his plate. “Colten, I’m sure you have good intentions, but …”
“I love her. I’ve loved her nearly my whole life. And I’m sorry that you’re just now finding out, but it doesn’t change the fact that …” He shrugs. “I love her.”
Mom wipes a tear. I don’t know how to react. I’m mad. And touched. And … something.
Dad eyes me for confirmation. I don’t know what to say, so I say the obvious. “He loves me.”
“And do you love him?”
Damn you, Dad!
The room shrinks with all eyes on me, a tiny specimen under a microscope. I give my attention to Colten, the perpetrator.
I’m not marrying you. I’m not moving in with you. I will not be manipulated. I will not give you anymore blow jobs. I’m mad as hell right now!
“Yes. I love him.”
It’s a lottery-winning smile that engulfs Colten’s handsome face. I’m sure it feels amazing to have someone say those three words when you need them the most. He didn’t show me the same consideration seventeen years ago, but … whatever. I have to let that shit go.
Dad torments Colten with his silence and unreadable expression. But this man who loves me reaches under the table and squeezes my leg as if to let me know my dad’s feelings about us no longer matter. Where was this Colten when I felt the need to cut my skin?
Dad stands. All eyes shift to him and his stony expression. “I can’t think of a better man for my daughter. You have my blessing.” He slaps Colten’s shoulder and squeezes it.
His blessing?
No. No blessing required. This isn’t a marriage. It’s not even cohabitation. It’s temporary in-home nursing.
I’m fine. I can walk to the end of the street and back. I can walk upstairs, albeit rather slowly. And despite Dr. Cornwell’s insistence that I take a minimum of twelve weeks off work, I’m going back in two … maybe three.
“You’re restricted from lifting more than ten pounds for eight weeks. How are you going to lift and reposition dead bodies?”
After my parents leave the following day, and I’m no longer being monitored twenty-four-seven, I grab my computer. I have four to five hours before Colten will be off work and here with his things, a changing of the guard.
Hair hanging from trees at churches.
Remains of girls’ bodies buried in cemeteries.
My fingers furiously type in different searches, but they all come up with the same results.
Winston Jeffries. 1892 to 1901 reign of terror.
Long hair tied to tree branches in Nashville, Tennessee, churchyards.
Young girls. Shaved heads.
Nearly a decade of kidnappings.
The bodies were never found.
NEVER. FOUND.
Jeffries was convicted of thirty-seven counts of first-degree murder and hanged in Owensboro, Kentucky, on February 10, 1902.
I search for Winston Jeffries copycats.
I search for literally everything I can think of that might make sense of what’s in my head. Before I realize it, the day passes. I’ve not taken my required walks. I’ve not eaten. And I’ve not touched my pain meds.
“Honey, I’m home,” Colten announces as he traipses into my living room, depositing a big duffle bag in the hallway first.
Shutting my laptop, I smile. “Hi.”
His forehead wrinkles. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing. Why?”
“Because you look guilty.”
I shake my head. “No. Guilty of what?”
“What were you looking at on your computer?”
“Nothing much.”
“Porn?”
I hesitate for a few seconds.
“Seriously? Are you seriously watching porn?”
I give him a tight smile and lift a shoulder.
The priceless look on his face is exactly what I need after a long day of not figuring out a damn thing.
“Bullshit,” he says, kneeling on the floor in front of me, wedging his body between my legs and nuzzling my neck. “I missed your lying ass today.”
I giggle when he bites my neck. Then I hiss because laughing doesn’t feel good after surgery.
He sits back, a cringe stealing his face. “Sorry.”
I have to quell the urge to ask him to look into the missing girls for me. I need peace of mind. I can’t focus on anything else, yet I can’t keep pushing this subject when no one takes me seriously. They say it’s confusion since the accident, but it’s not.
“What do you want me to heat up for dinner?”
I grin. “My mom really went overboard. We have meals and cookies for weeks.”
He sighs. “I’m good with that.” Bending forward, he rests his head on my lap.
I slide my fingers through his hair.
He hums like a cat, purring with each stroke. When we’re like this, I don’t feel those missing seventeen years. I just feel him.
My best friend.
My lover.
My Colten.
“Long day?”
Again, he hums. “So long. I have a pile of paperwork on my desk, but I left it for tomorrow because I needed this.”