Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 75633 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75633 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Thinking about Red inevitably brings my mind to her asshole brother and his threats.
His threats make me think of Jenna.
Jenna makes me think of the truth, which yeah, I fucking embellished, but I never killed her.
Too bad I was caught red-handed the second asshole noticed me tampering with his brakes. I'll never understand how he deciphered the intent, or why he sat on it as long as he did.
I underestimated him. Should've done more than a basic patch job, realizing too late the garage in town never half-asses things.
It's not like it matters.
His lies were enough. They tore her away, stole my woman while she was still wearing my ring, clutching it to her trembling lip like it was the reason our world went to hell.
Not because of the lying, would-be murderer idiot standing in front of her on the icy driveway after attacking her brother. Not because of the bigger fool who ran.
I should have faced the music.
Turned myself in and let the heavens fall.
Shoulda, coulda, woulda.
I don't know what's in the crystal ball next. I try not to picture it, much as I need to, if we're ever getting anywhere.
Today, I'm here, boiling pasta, listening to my little girl hum a patriotic tune that tears my heart out, and not because it summons a lot of ghosts into my screwed up head.
My eyes drift over to the cheap notebook and pen. I bought it the first and last time we stopped in town, the same night we left everything, tearing down the highway to this abandoned place I've seen a thousand times. It's got hotels, routes, itineraries, whatever I could find online the first night before I switched off my phone and tossed it into the Mississippi at a scenic overlook.
There's plenty of paper left over, demanding words. For two weeks, I've resisted the biting urge to sit down and write. I can't, I can't, I so fucking can't, I keep telling myself.
Because the instant I do, and those words flow out of me, they have to find Red. I have to bring them to her. And if I let that happen, everything ends.
I wake up with a groan the next morning. I roll over, check honeybee snoozing on the blow up mattress next to me. She likes to pull her covers off at night and wake up freezing, but thankfully that's not the case this morning.
I'm careful not to wake her, fixing myself a coffee in the little kitchen. It's cheap instant shit that puts a few more hairs on my chest after the first sip. First thing I'm grabbing once we've settled into our new lives is a grinder and some fresh beans.
Even hardasses are coffee snobs sometimes.
My caffeine woes pale compared to the notebook next to the stove. The pen is still on top, calling me, ruining my day before the cold winter sun is up.
“Goddammit, I can't...” I whisper, downing more black sludge.
My hands aren't listening.
Somehow, my fingers find their way to the smudged black pen.
Somehow, I'm holding the notebook when I sit on the plastic stack of storage bins I use as a makeshift chair.
Somehow, I'm writing like a man who's lost his mind.
I can't leave town without Red knowing. Not without an explanation. Not without a clue.
My hand scribbles furiously for the next half hour, finding the words lodged in my heart like an arrow, drawing them out in quick, painful bursts. Emotion bleeds out of me and stains the pages. Wounds the old Marshal Howard never knew.
This new man I've become beats his way out of me, high on adrenaline. Alive and enraged with a cold new realization.
I never thought I'd love a woman this fucking much.
How the hell can I leave Sadie behind?
I don't know. But I have to find a way, right after I finish this note, get our crap together, and feed my little girl some breakfast.
Survival doesn't make room for heartbreak, or bitter confessions. It's cruel, unrelenting, and a bitch with zero room in her icy heart for error.
Go.
After you finish this thing, stuff it in an envelope, and drop it at her door.
This has to be the end.
I tell myself the same thing over and over. It's early, well before our small town's poor excuse for a rush hour. Maybe if I can get Mia up and dressed in the next half hour, stopping at the McDonald's on the edge of town won't be too huge a risk. Then we'll hit the highway and never look back.
Finally. I have a plan, and it's the first time it's actually felt right.
Standing, I look through the dirty windows at the first sunlight peaking up above the frosted trees. There's a heavy peace in my bones.
Then I hear the engine. It's a rough noise that shouldn't be here in the morning calm. A slow steady growl that's too ominous and far too fucking close to our hideaway.