Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 134654 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 673(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134654 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 673(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Kissing her ever so softly, I pressed my forehead against hers. “You’re my home, Cleo Price. And through life or death, I’m never letting you go.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Cleo
It’d been three years since I’d become Sarah Jones. Three years of living an imposter’s life. Three years of emptiness. But now there was an itch inside my brain … begging for a scratch, craving the walls to fall.
Life had taken away my past and changed my future … I just had to hold on and see where the tide of change led me. —Cleo, diary entry, age seventeen
The next morning began like any other.
I woke on the left side of the bed with Arthur on the right.
We smiled and stroked and showered together.
We chatted and ate breakfast like any ordinary couple.
He skirted the topic of world domination, secret plans, and revolutionary reform. While I pried and inquired and tried to comprehend the magnitude of what would happen.
Then he announced he had business to attend to back at Pure Corruption.
I asked if I could go.
He said no.
He explained it was boring admin stuff. Stuff I wouldn’t be interested in.
I didn’t believe him, even when he assured me he wouldn’t be long. That he’d be back for dinner. That I didn’t need to worry.
He was downright lying.
When he walked out the door¸ I knew then that something was wrong.
It wasn’t his overeager assurances that terrified me. It wasn’t his curtness when I pried.
What petrified me were the words he didn’t say.
The questions he refused to answer.
He was planning something.
Something huge.
And there was nothing I could do to stop it.
“What do you think of this one?”
Grasshopper’s voice wrenched me from my thoughts.
I blinked, completely lost as to where we were and what the hell we were doing there. After Arthur had left, I’d paced the house, stewing with anger.
Once that proved unproductive, I decided to take drastic action. I threw on my jacket, tied up my hair, and stormed from the house—fully intending to drive over to the compound and demand to know what the hell was going on.
Only, I got as far as the garage before I was intercepted like some criminal.
Grasshopper had been put on babysitting duty.
And as much as I liked him—I wanted to tear him apart when he confiscated my pilfered car keys and threw me on the back of his Triumph with some halfhearted excuse of overseeing a few things.
The first half of the morning had been spent popping into the small businesses that Arthur, Mo, and Grasshopper ran—collecting income and records from the previous week.
But now it was late afternoon and I knew this rigmarole was intentional.
I was being kept away for a reason.
I could barely breathe with worry. Everything inside me screamed that something was seriously wrong.
Every time I sneaked into a bathroom and dialed Arthur’s number, it went straight to voice mail. Every time I asked Grasshopper to elaborate on why Arthur had gone to the compound without me, he replied with the same annoying noncommittal response.
Once again I was in the dark and I hated it. More than hated it. Crushed by it. “Butterbean … earth to Cleo.” Grasshopper snapped his fingers in front of my face, forcing me to focus. Another salon came into view. The third one today.
I scowled for the hundredth time.
The outside was pretty and cotton candy sweet. Decorated with golds and pinks, it enticed women—judging by the four clients currently in different stages of styling in the window—but set my teeth on edge.
I’d get a damn cavity just looking at the place.
I shifted on the back of the Triumph. The Florida sunshine hadn’t let up and my jacket was stifling. All I wanted was a cold glass of water and some shade.
And the truth.
A cold dish of honesty.
Any other afternoon, I would’ve loved this. I would’ve jumped at the chance to get to know Hopper more—exploring all the avenues of Pure Corruption. But this wasn’t any other afternoon.
Crossing my arms, I said for the twentieth time, “Give it up, Hopper. I want to go back.”
Hopper twisted the accelerator; the bike rumbled between our legs. Avoiding eye contact, he glanced not-so-subtly at his phone. “Fine. I guess we can go back.”
I tried to glimpse at whatever existed on his screen, but he cleared it and stuffed it back into his pocket.
“Take me to where Kill is.”
He shook his head. “Nuh-uh. I’ll take you back to his place.”
My blood boiled. “I don’t want to go back to his place—not unless he’s there.”
His back tensed, knuckles fisting around the handles. “Can’t.”
My blood turned to ice.
“Why not?”
Go on. Admit it.
The apprehension of a lie hovered between us.
“He told me to take you back, that’s all. Meeting’s almost over. He’ll be back soon.”
The fib threw sticky tar over my insides. It was so obvious.
Through his deception, he’d shown me the truth.