Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
“Alright.” With tensed lips, I stick my index finger beneath the seal and let it rip open. I add a snarky, “You’ll have to listen in, too.”
“I’m always here whenever you need.”
I collect the tears that won’t cease from falling and clear my strained throat. Seconds later, I’m reading Victor’s short note.
“I don’t know . . . if I’ll return, Little One,” my voice crashes like broken glass, “so, I thought it best that you have either Dr. Everhart or your father around when you open the other envelope. It contains the name of the person who mur—” My hands flap, airing the heat surging over my flesh. “Oh, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.” With burning eyes, I continue, “Who murdered your mum.”
He must’ve thought he’d return by now. Having Dad or Uncle Red around while sharing the news was a last resort.
A flurry of emotions ratchets through my body. “Will you please hold on to the second letter? Vic clearly intended to return to be with me. I’ve waited over a year to bring my mother’s murderer to justice. I will wait.”
22
Luxury
Twenty-eight days later . . .
I remember obsessing through October of last year, fretting that I hadn’t spent an entire month dominated by “Dr. Victor Finch” before I was madly in love with him.
Damn, now I’m counting the days when he’ll return to me.
But today, I agreed to go out. To leave the slice of nirvana Victor purchased for us. Our home.
When I tell Burt, he’s taken back by my response. I can understand why, as he’s implored me to visit Urban Gardens for the past six weeks. Or Aliyah. Anyone.
“Ye-yes,” he sputters over his words, placing the teacup onto the counter. “I’ll have the driver ready at once. Where are we going?”
“You don’t have to . . .” I gesture to his crutches.
“Nonsense. I’ll sit with the driver and read.”
“We’re visiting Uncle Red.”
At the mention of Dr. Everhart, Burt’s brows push toward his well-kempt gray hair.
“Oh, I won’t leave you in suspense, Burt. You aren’t really a butler anymore, so you could’ve asked. And the answer is yes, I have the envelope.” I pat my purse.
“Very well then.”
Still, I’m staring at a face creased with wisdom and astonishment, so I add, “And no . . . my decision to visit Uncle Red after almost six weeks without Victor doesn’t imply . . . I’ve lost faith in Vic returning. I just know that Uncle Red has suffered from a broken heart a whole lot longer than I have.” And it’s friggen unfathomable.
“That’s kind of you, Luxury. Dr. Everhart deserves closure.” Burt grunts, attempting to arise on his crutches, and I’m at his side in seconds. “You as well,” he adds.
I jump, unnerved, when a servant appears, saying, “Allow me, Mrs. Tudor.” The staff started referring to me like that a while back, and I didn’t have the heart to tell them I might not ever become a Tudor.
Burt suggested a helicopter ride into the city, followed by commissioning a ride. I preferred the scenic route, mainly to give Vic more time to return to read the darn letter himself. So, a two-hour drive stretched on, and now the evening sun fans between cement and brownstone buildings alike.
I nudge my chin. “C’mon, Burt. I wouldn’t just leave you in the car.”
He pats the book he’s had trouble reading lately. Only having turned the page three times in the hours it took us to arrive. I needed something to fixate on, so I counted. Literally counted the minutes between Burt’s page turns.
“Rubbish, I’ll not impose.”
One miserable puppy dog face later, and the two of us are assisted into Uncle Red’s brownstone.
Fingernails embed into the flesh of my palms as I wait for Charles Everhart to step back into the sitting room with the kettle corn and cans of Coca-Cola. Uncle Red says, “Mr. Burt, we aren’t tea people here, so this is all I have to offer besides water.”
Burt takes the can with a smile.
To keep up pretenses, I expand upon Uncle Red’s joke while cocking my head to Burt. “This one will only complain about dust and the degree to which a serving spoon should be placed.”
“Tosh,” Burt retorts, smoothing down his tie. “I’ll have you both know that I grumble over red herrings in mystery books and jeans. I detest the ghastly material touching my skin.”
Uncle Red feigns jealousy. “Luxxie, have I been replaced?”
“Never,” I snort, “Burt’s just my bodyguard.”
This time, the two of us laugh while the butler has a pointed look at his crutches before he breaks. “I’m glad to see that you’re alright, Luxxie,” Uncle Red says.
As if realizing we’ve forgotten Victor for the slightest moment, Burt and I look away.
Uncle Red clears his throat. “I gather you didn’t come by to watch Jeopardy?”
“Not really, Uncle Red. I’m so sorry—”