Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 138642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 555(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 555(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
That gives me a sneaking suspicion it isn’t, and it hangs like an axe over my head as I hold Ophelia till sleep finds us.
I never sleep long that night.
Eventually, my girl drifts off in a relaxed bundle against me, her soft breaths tickling my chest and shoulder.
But me?
My brain’s spinning too many circles to let me rest.
Mostly, I’m knee-deep in my memories.
Being older than Ophelia, I was around Angela Sanderson since I was in grade school, back when Ethan was her only kid.
That was how we met.
Some of the kids at recess were picking on him because he was moping around and didn’t want to talk to anybody, always curled up with his Tolkien books. I thought he was gonna get completely pounded, but he was a scrapper. Ethan threw himself into the fray like he didn’t care if he got murdered by a bunch of pipsqueaks.
I didn’t like it.
So I turned that fight into two on ten and somehow we came out of it alive—beat to hell and back but alive—and friends before we even knew each other’s last names.
That was how I found out his dad died of leukemia and it was just Ethan and his ma.
That he wasn’t moping ’cause he was a ‘big nerd’ like the kids called him, but ’cause he missed his old man like any normal boy would. Even when we were munchkins, I remember being so mad anyone could pick on him for that that I could spit nails.
The rest of it, that’s where I blank out.
I can’t remember seeing Angela Sanderson with the Arrendells one time.
Could just be holes in my memory. Muddled stuff from childhood that doesn’t like to stick, the same way your old life falls away like a dream as you grow up.
I dunno.
Something about this ain’t adding up, though.
Feels like it’s right in front of my face.
I just can’t fucking see it.
There’s some bigger picture coming together here and I’m too close to make out what it is. I can’t shake the weirdness.
It’s almost like you’re being watched.
Like the shadow of the Arrendells looming over Redhaven is this invisible force, always staring down from every corner, leering and watching your every movement—
Crack.
I go stiff as something snaps outside.
Wrapping my arms tighter around Ophelia, I gather her close.
Maybe that feeling ain’t just my imagination after all.
Because that sure as hell sounded like somebody stepping on leaves in my yard.
Moving stealthily, I lift myself up to peer through the window over the headboard without jostling her.
There’s a solid view of the front from there.
While common sense tells me it’s just a critter or the wind skittering yard debris across the driveway, my instincts smell a rat.
Or rather, a tall, ominous skinny figure standing on the walk right outside my fucking house, staring up at the window like he knows I’m looking back.
Same dude.
Thin. Grey hair. Tailcoat.
The asshole stalker.
Pure primal instinct takes over—can’t let him escape again.
I jolt out of bed with Ophelia’s startled cry trailing me, pelting across the floor and leaping downstairs two at a time.
Pure frustration drives me like I’m a human engine and someone just poured white-hot fuel through me.
That man, whoever he is, can’t be up to any good.
He’s a threat.
The fact that he scared the bejeezus out of the woman I love is enough reason to pound him senseless.
Like hell I’ll let him get away.
I streak through the house, momentum throwing me to the front door and out to the porch.
The moment I tear the door open, the man starts, stumbling back.
He’s fucking real.
Not just my imagination.
Definitely not an illusion as I catch a glimpse of a haggard, wrinkled face, fearful black eyes, and a mouth pulled down in a sagging curve.
We lock eyes for a split second.
I smell pure dread in his face.
Then he turns and bolts into the night.
He’s spry for an old stalkery fuck, and he’s got a head start—not that it stops me from rocketing after him.
I barely feel the cold air or the rough wooden porch boards on my bare feet—then the asphalt, the ground, cracked twigs stabbing my calloused feet as I chase him through the trees.
How is he so quick?
His long legs fly in a blur, tailcoat streaming behind him, breathing loudly through clenched teeth.
Asshole, no, you don’t!
I pour everything into the frantic chase, closing the distance one ground-eating stride at a time, fists clenched as I pump my arms, faster, faster until—
He vanishes into the tree line at the edge of my property.
Fuck.
Snarling, I plunge in after him, the shadows under the branches swallowing me whole.
Boughs and shrubs scratch at my arms, my shoulders, my chest.
I shove the foliage aside, scanning left and right, searching through the dense tree trunks, but there’s nothing.
Nothing but the earthy smell of autumn and the screech of a startled owl.