Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 91064 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91064 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
“That poor bloke is my new plaything,” I say. “And you and I are over.”
His nostrils flare and the pulse in his throat is beating a dangerous staccato. He closes his eyes and paces before me, biceps tensing at his sides.
And then he turns and slams his fist into the wall.
“Fuuuuuuck,” he roars.
It isn’t helping.
He told me once, how he used to struggle with his rage.
It’s back now.
I did that.
I’ve brought out his demons.
And if it were possible to hate myself any more than I already do, I would.
I need to drive it home, and I need him to leave. To go home and forget he ever knew me. To find a nice girl who can give him the nice things he wants and needs.
And I will wither and die, but that will be okay. Because he will be safe.
“You were fun for a while,” I say. “But that’s all it was. It was a game to me, like you said. And you were just a toy. That’s it. I’m done playing with you now.”
His hand falls limp at his side, and it really hurts when you care about other people.
It hurts so goddamn much.
The threat of tears is so real, but Rory can’t see them anymore because he isn’t looking at me.
Because he believes me.
He believes the lies that spill from my lips more than any truth I’ve ever told him. Because deep down, he always knew I was a monster.
He wanted to save me, but he had to know he couldn’t.
Goodbyes are supposed to have closure. Finality.
But Rory doesn’t give me that.
He walks out on me instead. Away from me and my bullshit.
Without even looking back.
I go after him. Because fuck him for believing me.
He shouldn’t have believed me.
I tell Booker as much when he stops me.
“Scarlett, I’m so sorry,” Booker says. “But this is what you wanted. You didn’t want him involved.”
“This is all your fault,” I scream. “You could have helped me. You could have found another way.”
“I am trying to help you, Scarlett.”
I don’t believe him.
I don’t believe anything anymore.
Except the one unfailing truth that I know.
I’ve made this bed, and now I have to lie in it.
Thirty-Three
Scarlett
I have to remind myself to breathe - remind my heart to beat - Emily Brontë
“This wasn’t part of the deal.”
I’m at Booker’s throat the minute he walks in the door. He tells the other agent- the one watching over me- to take a hike.
“If I’d told you, you wouldn’t have agreed,” he replies. “We need to keep you safe, Scarlett. And this is the only way.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“I know you’d like to believe that. But do you honestly think there is anything Alexander wouldn’t do to get to you?” he asks. “Now that he knows.”
“How can he know? There aren’t even any charges yet.”
He drops a file onto the table in front of me. A thick file.
When I open it up, I am confronted with the level of Alexander’s sick obsession with me. There are photos… so many photos. And notes. Handwritten notes detailing my routines, searching for potential patterns, names of the men that I trick rolled, and worst of all- his own observations. His thoughts on why I do what I do. Meandering sentences with question marks scribbled beside them.
He doesn’t just want me.
He wants into my psyche.
“These are copies,” I say.
“Yes, I have the originals,” Booker answers.
“And how did you get them?”
He arches a brow and doesn’t answer this time. Because he won’t incriminate himself. And because if the bureau knew that he had this sort of evidence in his possession and he didn’t come forward with it, they’d have his ass.
“How can you be sure these were the only copies?” I ask.
“They weren’t,” he says. “I have the others as well.”
I forget that he’s been watching Alexander. That this is some sort of weird fucked up circle where Alex is stalking me and Booker is stalking him.
“So now Alexander knows and I’m the one who has to be a prisoner.”
“You have a roof over your head,” Booker says. “Food, clothes, everything you could possibly need. It’s only until the trial is over.”
“So when does it even fucking begin?”
Booker sighs, and I am not a pleasant bitch to be around right now. It’s been this way since Rory left, and I blame him, because it’s easy and he’s in front of me.
“There are a lot of different factors involved,” he explains. “It can take anywhere from months… to sometimes… longer.”
“Longer than months. So you mean years then?” I laugh and it’s bitter. “I’m just supposed to sit here and twiddle my goddamn thumbs for, oh I don’t know… potentially years… and you can’t even guarantee that we have a solid case. I’ll be in hiding while they are free on bail. So they win, again, either way. They always fucking win.”