Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 138981 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 695(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138981 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 695(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
My silence must speak volumes because Lucas shrugs his broad shoulders. “Believe me, don’t believe me, that’s your choice. I’m just giving you a theory.”
He powers up his treadmill again, settling back into that ground-eating run that tells me he’s had training somewhere besides the police academy. I doubt small-town boot camp trains his kind of stamina.
But I don’t say anything as I settle back into my own distracted jog.
The silence between us isn’t what I’d call uneasy.
I can’t block out his presence, and he’s aware of me too.
It eats at me for the next five minutes, this steady tension that somehow feels like a truce, too.
Not just because he’s killing my workout zen. But because he’s been—I don’t know, decent today.
Even if it’s just doing his job and I don’t know if I can trust him.
After a few more minutes running, pacing my steps to my thrumming heartbeat, I clear my throat and force myself to speak.
“I’m sorry for earlier.” It feels like pulling teeth. I’ve always had trouble with apologies. That’s why I have to make myself say them when it’s truly necessary. “The other day. You were checking up on me and I was kind of a fire-breathing bitch. I’m sorry.”
Now he does miss a beat, his sneakers squeaking before he recovers.
He slows and gives me a long, hard look. His perma-grumpy face softens into something handsomely understanding, almost graceful.
“Nobody’s at their best with the shit you stumbled into,” he says. “You didn’t hurt my feelings one bit. I can recognize when someone’s lashing out because they’re in shock and not completely in control versus when they’re a real asshole. Don’t worry.”
Smirking, I toss my ponytail back over my shoulder. “How do you know I’m not a real asshole?”
“I don’t.” He snorts loudly. “But if you are, New York, I reckon we might just get along.”
“You reckon you can keep calling me that and not die, too?”
“I do, Miss Delilah.” His eyes flash brighter.
Oh my God, no.
...I think we’re having a moment.
“You’re so ridiculous!” I shout. I can’t help laughing, shaking my head.
At least now it’s easier to breathe, even as I force my lungs to work.
I used to be a really crappy runner.
I’d always breathe through my mouth and wonder why I got so winded that my lungs gave up long before my body did. My mom taught me that I have to breathe through my nose, pace it, control it, and once I got that down, the rest comes easy. She learned that because she was a bad runner, too, for all the same reasons.
It’s weird having so much in common with a parent you didn’t know for most of your life.
But I guess blood runs thick and true.
Thinking about blood brings me back to a flash of scarlet, that poor girl—and my thoughts freeze in place. I stare down at the screen with my speed, my distance, my heart rate, and it’s probably no surprise that whenever I think of that poor girl, everything ticks up.
“Lucas?” His name sticks in my mouth.
“Yeah?”
“Will you...” I bite the inside of my cheek. “Will you just keep me updated if you find out who she is? I just feel like I should know her name.”
He lets out a hesitant sigh. “New York—”
“I know, I know.” I close my eyes, cursing myself.
Why am I getting so attached? Why am I prying him, asking for information I can’t have, letting this eat at me like acid?
“If the family doesn’t want her name released, legally you can’t, right? I get that. But if you can. If you can, please. I’ve decided to go back to the house soon. I could use the extra space and I don’t want one rotten memory chasing me off. Also, I’m going to be living with her ghost.” I pause, sighing before I say, “Shouldn’t I at least respect her enough to know who she was?”
I feel him looking at me, cool and assessing, but I keep my eyes on the screen, the numbers.
“Okay, Miss Delilah. I’ll do what I can,” he says finally.
“Oh. Oh, thank you!” I cannot believe I’m smiling as hard as I am at this stubborn caveman with a badge.
Of course, he says nothing.
We just run on for a little while longer, silent, together and apart, each of us moving to the rhythm of our own thoughts.
4
Red With Envy (Lucas)
Gotta say, Delilah Clarendon’s one peculiar girl.
Living with ghosts?
Then again, aren’t we all?
I slouch down in the driver’s seat of my patrol car, parked in my usual spot on the corner of the square. I’m keeping an eye on things over the top of my book.
The Great Alone by Kristin Hannah today.
I’m not picky about genre as long as the writing’s good.
Only, I’m struggling to slip into the fine Alaskan drama and it’s got nothing to do with the writing.