Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 142728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
She must’ve asked me to text her when I get home again. “I like that you worry about me.” I stare past her at the house. “I worry about you and Libby here all alone by yourselves.”
“We’re used to it.”
I curl my hand around hers and pull her toward me. “What if I moved closer?” Without waiting for a response, I plow ahead with my thought. “I’ll ask Grinder if I can take over the lease to his apartment.”
She frowns at my brother’s road name for a brief second. “Oh. Grayson. Serena said his place was close when she was staying with us.”
“Would you worry less if I didn’t have to go so far?”
“You’d do that…for me?”
I’m starting to think I’d do almost anything for her.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Emily
Work had been a slog. Or it would’ve been if I didn’t have a memorable afternoon and evening with Dex to replay in my head over and over again.
Reliving those moments certainly helped when I had to notify one of our clients that their ammonia levels were out of compliance. I had to endure minutes of verbal abuse over the phone regarding the quality of my testing methods and equipment. To my annoyance, I ended up retesting the sample just to shut them up. And what do you know? The result was the same. I let them know by email.
Happy to be leaving work behind me for the next fourteen hours, I pull into my driveway, noting the warm glow from the living room lights around the edges of the window. Libby’s already home.
Hmm…Which version of my sister will I encounter tonight? The sweet one or the sassy one? Living with a teenager sure keeps life exciting.
I unlock the front door and push it open. Libby’s on the couch with the television on but she’s staring at her phone, endlessly sliding her thumb over the screen.
“Hey, Libby,” I call out.
She turns away from her phone to utter the briefest, “Hey, Em.”
Sometimes I miss the little girl who would come running to greet me at the door, throw her skinny arms around my legs, and plead for hugs.
“How was your day?” I ask.
“Meh.” She shrugs. “I heated up some of the leftover pizza for you.” She points toward the kitchen without looking away from her phone.
My stomach rumbles. “Thanks.” My sister may not be excited to see me but at least she won’t let me starve.
I set my purse on the entry table and take out my phone, sliding it into my pocket. “Did you eat?”
“Yup.”
I open my mouth to ask what’s so interesting on her phone that she can’t hold a conversation. Nah, that sounds too much like the kind of nagging a mom might do.
Sighing, I head for the kitchen, stopping to ruffle my hand over the top of her head on my way. She grunts and slaps at me in protest.
In the kitchen, two cheese slices about thirty seconds from being reheated into charred cardboard wait for me in the toaster oven. I grab a paper plate off the counter and tug one of the slices out, burning the tips of my fingers in the process.
“Ow! Damn.” I grab a knife and poke it into the other slice and drag it out slowly, plopping it onto my plate.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I set the plate on the table and grab a can of lemon seltzer out of the fridge, popping it as I sit down. I pull out my phone and flick the screen on.
Dex: Get home safe?
I smile wide. How’d he know this is almost exactly when I usually get home?
Me: Yup. Sitting down for leftover pizza now.
Dex: Miss you.
My thumb hovers over the phone. I’m so close to tapping out an invitation. But won’t that seem sort of desperate and clingy? Too easy?
Me: Miss you too. What are you up to tonight?
There. That’s honest. But not too needy.
Dex: A minor bit of mayhem.
Huh. I don’t know what to make of that.
I bite into one slice, searing the roof of my mouth. Dammit. How long does a slice of pizza need to cool off?
Knowing I’ll just burn my mouth again if I stay put, I stand and wander to the corner of the counter where we usually stack the mail. I sort through the junk—why do companies still waste money sending paper when everyone just looks things up online now? Stuff we don’t need, I tear into shreds and toss in the trash. Bills I set aside to take care of later.
I stop my mad tearing spree at a plain white envelope addressed to me by hand.
Ashport Correctional Facility.
Tremors run down my arms, rattling the envelope. No fucking way. Why? He’s not supposed to send us anything.
Fury replaces my fear and I rip open the envelope. I yank out the grimy piece of notebook paper, staring at the neatly printed block letters.