Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 82068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Don’t move.
Bide your time.
A clunk can be heard on the floor. I’m assuming the person just set down the lock to my cage.
I wait an agonizingly long twenty-seven seconds before metal clinks against metal. Then the door swings open above me. After having been in the dark, the light is blinding, and I squint to try to make out the shadowed form. Before I can launch myself out of the hole, I’m staring down the barrel of a fierce-looking handgun.
I’ve never seen a gun up close and now one is inches from my eyeball. All hope of escaping floods away along with the hold on my bladder. Warmth soaks my jeans, and the pungent smell of urine hits my nostrils.
“Oh, little brother,” a deep, gravelly voice utters, “what have you done this time?”
The door slams closed before I can utter a word. My gut roils at the sound of the lock snapping closed. Then all light is snuffed out as something once again covers the trapdoor of my prison.
I’m trapped.
Again.
This time, I find my voice.
I scream and scream and scream.
But no one ever comes.
Romy
A few days earlier…
How is it that I’m an impressive two thousand seven hundred and eighty-four miles away from Dad but I feel as though I’m still living under the same roof, forced to abide by his strict rules?
I stare at his last text.
Dad: For Eva’s birthday, she just wants the whole family together. I’ll expect you to visit during your winter break and stay through Christmas and New Year’s Day.
Not a question.
More expectations.
I’m tempted to reply to him that I have a job and can’t get off during the holidays, but I know that’ll infuriate him. Rather than having an adult conversation with me, he’ll push the inconvenience of his youngest child onto his young wife, Eva, or my older brother, Bastian, to bring me back in line. And if that doesn’t work, he’ll ship Sarai—his assistant who slays at earning her keep—out to California to fetch his unruly daughter.
I roll my eyes.
I’ve always been good. Always obeyed and followed his rules. But the first chance I got to escape from beneath his thumb, I was gone.
USC is pretty much heaven for me. Aside from check-ins with Dad, I can do whatever I want. I’d even won the war about my housing situation. Since I was a kid, I’d dreamed of living in a dorm and having a roommate. The idea of it was completely foreign to me, which is exactly why I wanted to do it. Of course Dad wasn’t having it. He had to concede, though, when there weren’t any available apartments or homes close by.
“Dude,” a guy says from a row behind me, pulling me into the here and now. “Epstein didn’t kill himself.” He thumps his laptop screen. “I have all the proof too.”
The redhead girl forced to sit beside him sighs heavily. “Enough to make our case?”
I go back to ignoring everyone in my government class as I force myself to reply to my father.
Me: I’ll be there.
He doesn’t respond, which means he’s done speaking on the matter. As much as I secretly crave to goad him a little, I don’t. We’re already on shaky ground due to my “absurd” college choice. The last thing I need is him thinking LA is tainting my precious sensibilities. Sarai would have me packed up and sitting first class on the next red-eye flight back to JFK in the city. By Monday, I’d be enrolled in Dad’s Ivy League East Coast Alma Mater, following in the footsteps of the entire Langston bloodline since the early 1700s.
No, thanks.
“Sorry,” Professor Bolton says, her graying brown curls escaping her messy bun. “Traffic. Not all of us get to take the secret tunnels of the Hollywood elite.” She smirks and arches an eyebrow. “Anyone choose that one?”
“No,” the redhead girl grumbles, “but I’d love to change our project topic.”
On cue, the kid beside her says, “Epstein didn’t kill himself. Tell her, man.”
Professor Bolton, used to the goofy freshman in her class, shrugs. “That’s your research, not mine. And sorry, Miss Adams, it’s too late.”
I’m once again thankful for a good partner. It was by pure luck I was paired up with Megan Benson. We hadn’t spoken before in class until about two weeks ago. It was then I learned that even though she’s painfully shy, she’s a hard worker. Plus, we also discovered we share an unhealthy love for pumpkin pie frappes at the USC coffee shop near her dorm.
Speaking of Megan…it’s not like her to show up late. In fact, she’s usually here at least ten minutes earlier than me, her notebooks, pen, and laptop all placed neatly on her desk. If I’d met Megan before enrolling at USC, I’d have asked her to be my roommate. Tara is messy. Megan is annoyingly neat, just like me.