Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 138169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
“No, Miss Lewis.” I shake my head. “It’s a little more complicated than that. I think we should talk alone.”
She goes pale—but I think she’s starting to get the idea, and at least I’ve gently eased her into considering the possibility before slapping her in the face with the ugly truth.
“Um, okay.” Eventually, she nods, swallowing thickly and stepping back. “Come on in.”
I follow her into the suite.
It’s a two-room unit in the usual rustic antebellum style Janelle favors, all lace curtains and wood furniture. I recognize the woodwork from A Touch of Grey.
Ariana and Brian seem to have settled in for a little while. There’s none of the usual disarray of people living out of suitcases, just a little camping equipment against the wall of the combination living room and kitchen.
Ariana flutters her hands a little, standing between the kitchenette and the dining table. “Can I get you tea or…?”
“Would tea make you feel better?” I ask. “And do you mind if I sit?”
“No, go ahead, I—” She stares at me for a few moments longer. She knows. As I sink down into one of the ladderback chairs at the table, she whirls away from me, picking at cabinet doors and an electric kettle.
“…he didn’t text me back this morning,” she says miserably, looking at her hands.
I fold my hands on the table.
“When was the last time you heard from him, Miss Lewis?”
“Last night.” Her voice gets smaller with every word, and she’s holding the electric kettle under the faucet without turning the water on, just staring at it in her hands. “Around nine o’clock, I think? I said I was turning in early because I didn’t feel well, and… I sent him kisses. He sent kisses back and said he was going to stay up late to do some wildlife photography.” She lifts her head, turning a wistful smile over her shoulder. Her eyes are pleading. “That’s what he does, you know? He wants to work for the big magazines, the ones still in print, but he’s sold some really gorgeous pieces to nature magazines while he builds his portfolio. So, when he didn’t text back, I figured he just got wrapped up in his shoot and stayed up all night, then crawled into his tent and crashed.” Her laugh is brittle. She abruptly snaps the faucet on with a jerky movement, filling the kettle. “He’d never sleep if I didn’t remind him, but I didn’t go with him this time.”
Interesting.
We didn’t find a camera with his body.
We circled the whole area in a broad sweep and found a burned-out campfire. The ashes were old enough that he likely set up camp there before his death, then moved on and hadn’t put down stakes that night before his mishap.
If he had a camera on him, we’d have found it nearby, even if it wasn’t in his bag. It’s possible he lost it somewhere else on the trip, though it doesn’t seem likely.
“Janelle said you weren’t feeling well?” I ask.
“Yeah, I—sorry for the TMI—but I have PCOS. Sometimes I get cramps so bad I can’t walk. I have to stay in bed.” She shrugs stiffly. “He offered to stay with me, of course, but I didn’t want him to miss out on this when it’s why we came out here. I told him to go have fun.”
It's not hard to tell what she’s thinking.
That I’m about to say her boyfriend’s dead, and he might not be if she’d just asked him to stay.
“Miss Lewis,” I say gently. “I want you to know that what I’m about to tell you isn’t your fault.”
She closes her eyes.
What I can see of her face over her shoulder crumples.
“…no. No, it’s not, he can’t be… Jesus, tell me he’s not?”
“I can’t tell you that, ma’am.” I choose my words very carefully. I let her piece it together, holding back a blunt statement of fact.
Not optimal, but kinder than dropping a ten-ton sledgehammer on her head.
The kettle falls from her fingers and bangs in the steel sink.
She clutches her hands against the edge of the counter, her shoulders hunching.
She just stands there for more than a minute, her eyes closing, the only sound between us the rush of water from the faucet.
I know I should say something here.
I don’t know how.
What would Talia do? I remember her first thought when I got my stupid ass drunk and spilled my shit all over her.
How she didn’t want me to regret trusting her with that information. That told me more than anything how much she cared about never using that to hurt me.
Is it any wonder I wanted to kiss her?
I think I know what Talia Grey would say if she were here right now.
“I’m sorry, Miss Lewis.” I’ve always thought apologies were empty, weak platitudes that can’t bring the dead back or unfuck wrongs. It sure wouldn’t bring my dead brother back.