Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 94220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
“It’s like getting a visit from Jamie Oliver. Are you avoiding my question because the cops are about to bust down the door?”
I’m joking. I assume they wouldn’t send him into danger if they thought I was a threat, but why isn’t he just getting to what went down?
“I’m only doing what you did to me this morning,” he says. “I wanted answers, and you were…less than forthcoming.”
“Yeah, I was there,” I remind him.
“So why don’t you sit at the table, and I’ll fix us some plates?”
“Okay…”
I take a seat at the table, anxious as fuck. His vengeance is cruel but just. Probably doesn’t hold a candle to what I did to him, so I need to take it on the chin. I’m sure I can safely assume he didn’t tell Roth the truth about last night; otherwise, there’d already be a police vehicle outside my door, not a voice mail. But the details of what he shared matter. If he didn’t say the right thing and the cops interfere, he could fuck this up for both of us. For himself because I won’t be able to keep him safe, and they won’t either. For me because this is my only chance to save my brother.
If he’s even still alive…
“How did you like the stroganoff?” He makes himself at home, searching through the cabinets.
“It was very good,” I confess. “My stomach is incredibly appreciative.”
As he pulls out plates and bowls, he glances over his shoulder, smiling. God, that’s a fucking smile. Between what happened last night and what I told him today, how can he still have such a killer smile?
And that fucking beanie. There’s a shift in my pants. Oh fuck, now’s not the time for a boner. That’ll really freak him out.
“You’re not even gonna give me a hint about what happened?” I ask as he continues prepping.
“Well, I told my parents about the break-in, alerted the Neighborhood Watch, and then got a locksmith to change the lock.”
“You know that’s not what I’m asking about. And that I already saw the locksmith drop by earlier in the day.”
“Which drawer is silverware?”
Fucker.
I direct him, then lean back in my chair, taking advantage of a meal being served to me. Been a long fucking time since I’ve had that.
He fishes some pepper and salt from his backpack and seasons our chili bowls before bringing his concoction over to me, the bowls and silverware set on the plates. He’s not as standoffish as he was this morning, setting my plate and bowl right in front of me. Then he places his on the opposite side of the table and takes a seat.
“This is good timing,” I say. “I wasn’t sure what I was gonna do for dinner. Wanted to order a pizza, but kind of got to save up my money to stay here. My rent before this was only six hundred, and this is a little under two thousand.”
“You like pizza? What kind?”
His head jerks subtly and his face twists up, like he realized what a weird question that was. Almost seemed instinctual, like something he would have asked anyone. Then he realized he was asking the creep next door.
“I usually go for something pretty basic, like pepperoni. If I’m real adventurous, I’ll do chicken Alfredo. Really very basic guy. I mean, I have my steel oats for breakfast, and then I’ll make a roast beef sandwich for lunch. Maybe eat some canned soup or chili for dinner.”
He stares at me, looking serious, as he did when I was telling him all that messed-up shit earlier.
“What?”
“I can’t imagine eating like that.”
“This is how we ate as kids, so I guess it’s normal to me.”
He’s still staring at me, like he’s trying to make sense of why kids would eat like that, so I try to get him off it.
“Bon appétit,” I say, and he watches me take a bite of the chili.
I close my eyes as a piece of spaghetti squash hits the roof of my mouth, the bottom of the spoon sliding over my tongue. There’s a hint of spice; I’ve only had two meals from him, and I can tell he likes spices.
“Fuck,” I say. “This is even better than the stroganoff. Not that it wasn’t good. It was amazing.”
“If you’re real good, I packed another cookie.”
“Then I guess I’ll be real good.”
He chuckles, and I’m wondering how the hell this is happening. What’s going on? Maybe this was how he was feeling all through our chat this morning.
I lick my lips and take a drink of the bottle of water he set out.
After we’ve both taken a few bites, I’m still on edge. Want him to put me out of my misery. “Am I gonna have to finish before you tell me?”
He swallows some coleslaw, then says, “I went to the station like you told me to. Talked to an officer who added some notes to the incident report and took the flash drive. They said they’d pass it all on to Detective Roth.”