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)
“I kind of stumbled over that when I was screaming into the phone, huh?” Ophelia smiles painfully. “There’s not that much more to say, honestly. I was in the back storage room at the shop, tidying up, when I heard the bell over the door. I went out and he was just standing there, pale and reeling, bleeding from the mouth. He didn’t say anything. He just turned and ran, taking off between the buildings. Crazy stamina for a man with internal bleeding, but...” She stops. When she speaks again, her voice is hushed, her eyes lidding over. “I guess I felt like he was leading me somewhere. Into the woods, then here. I bet he’s the one who dug up those bones. I don’t know, maybe he wanted it this way. Maybe he wanted me to—”
“He wanted you to see them,” I finish softly.
“Yeah.”
“Only question is why?”
“No clue.” Ophelia shakes her head. “But I think you’re asking the same questions I am, right now.”
Damn right.
Like how long that man’s been working up at the manor and who he is. It’s definitely easy to find out when the Arrendell house runs parallel to Redhaven like its own little insular world.
Folks can spend years working up there without anyone in town catching hide nor hair of them.
We don’t know if he was around ten, fifteen years ago.
Or whether or not he knows shit about people who disappeared back then.
What secrets has he been sitting on?
Did he know about Ulysses and the hillfolk?
About what the rest of that vicious clan get up to?
And who would stage a suicide—hell, maybe two suicides—to keep those secrets quiet?
I don’t like it.
I like it even less that Ophelia seems to be at the center of it. All because this man’s fixated on her for some bizarre reason—and I doubt that’s coincidence.
Redhaven is a place where coincidence goes to die.
Just have to hope like hell he wakes up and starts talking soon.
I’ve got some important fucking questions, all right.
Like what I can do to keep Ophelia safe, besides staying by her side as much as possible. I have to make sure the Arrendells don’t get a single step closer to her.
After all, it’s not that house that brings misfortune.
It’s not that house that brings death.
If there’s a stain on this town, it’s them.
It’s in their blood.
And I damn sure won’t let it consume the woman I love.
18
ONE PLUS ONE (OPHELIA)
I don’t know why Grant keeps acting like I’ve gotten less stubborn as I’ve gotten older.
When he tries to tell me to go home and rest, I tell him he knows exactly where he can stuff it. I won’t take no for an answer until he lets me tag along to the medical center.
I need to know what’s going on with my stalker and I’m hoping—
Actually, I don’t know what I’m hoping for.
Maybe that my own nursing expertise might help find answers somehow, even if it’s nothing more than a little analysis to help with the case report.
But it depends what he was poisoned with, and maybe a few vitals that might show whether he took it on purpose, by accident, or by force.
It’s hard being here again so soon, standing outside the big observation window looking in at a room that’s almost identical to Mom’s. Right down to the same yellowish curtains on the outside windows.
It’s not a big place.
She’s down the hall, too, just a few doors away.
It’s hard to remember I’m not here for her, though Grant’s presence at my side helps.
He’s grimly silent, his hazel eyes fixed firmly on the man’s lanky, pale figure as the doctors and nurses work, stripping him out of his tailcoat and the shirt and slacks underneath.
He’s wasted with more than just age.
Sunken ribs, grey skin, and his breaths come in shallow wheezes.
It’s painful to watch as they intubate him, forcing his throat to take the respirator tube. IV needles run glucose and whatever they think he needs to counteract organ failure.
They’re going to have to pump his stomach, probably, since he’s not conscious to take liquid charcoal or anything else to voluntarily expel the poison—assuming it’s not already too deep in his system.
There’s a foamy froth around his lips where the tube goes in.
My stomach flips over.
I have to close my eyes and look away.
“I can’t believe this was suicide,” I whisper. “His body’s shutting down in one of the worst ways possible. I just... I can’t imagine anyone dying that way voluntarily. If he overdosed on sleeping pills, maybe. Slipping away unconscious where you can’t feel the pain. But bleeding from the inside like that...”
“He’s not your mother, Butterfly,” Grant says quietly. One large, warm hand settles on my shoulder, a comforting weight that eases the shock of that sudden insight. “It’s not the same. You’re not watching your mother die. And she didn’t choose to suffer, either.”