Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 126564 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126564 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
Her tears fell freely now, covering her cheeks. She collapsed on the floor. Her forehead touched the cool marble. Her back quivered with sobs.
“I made a horrible mistake marrying him.”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
I didn’t fail to notice how Hera was still focused on her life, her decisions, her mistakes, her heartache. Even though I was the one with the trauma. The one who’d been wronged. I supposed sympathy was too much to ask. Especially considering we were all on the brink of a national scandal.
As if reading my thoughts, she tilted her head and stared at me. “Your life’s going to change forever, too, you know.” She used the couch’s back to try to steady herself before standing upright. “As soon as the news breaks, everyone will know. Are you ready for that?”
“Ready? No.” I smiled, turning around and ambling to the door. “Prepared? Yes.”
The drive to the airport passed in contemplative silence.
Scrolling through names of L.A. based therapists on my phone, I clicked on the pictures of ones who looked friendly. All women. I couldn’t see myself pouring my heart out to a man after everything I’d been through.
Ransom looked grim and deep in thought. I was amazed he didn’t use the time to work on his phone.
“You sick or something?” I took a break from my therapist shopping.
He glanced at me, still a million miles away. “No.”
“You seem distracted.”
“Just thinking.”
“What about?”
His eyes clung to mine, the answer inside them. He was hiding something. I understood, I’d lived my life cloaked in secrets, too. Something deep and dark and dangerous.
“I’m trying to think how to put it into words.”
“You’re scaring me.”
“Focus on finding a therapist, Hallie. You’ll need one.”
He twisted his head back, watching as cars swished by. I lowered my gaze back to my phone, my eyes landing on a fifty-something woman in a funky emerald blazer and a welcoming smile. She had the Rachel haircut—totally nineties—her hair as flame-red as mine.
Ilona Queen, PsyD
Licensed Clinical Psychologist
Alcohol addiction, substance abuse, eating disorder, trauma, PTSD, and relationship issues.
I clicked on the Book a Consultation button and held my breath.
Maybe this was the beginning of the end.
And the end of thinking I couldn’t rewrite my beginning.
Then.
As it turned out, we didn’t even have to kill Mr. Moruzzi.
The work of saints was often done through others. In our case—Mrs. Moruzzi.
Apparently, Mr. Moruzzi was sitting on quite a hefty sum of life insurance. Don’t ask me why that dumb fuck thought it would be a good idea to have a good insurance policy when everyone in his life wanted to see him dead.
On the news, we heard it was an accident. A terrible human error. The loving couple simply went hunting together, as they often did (according to the reporters, not to reality, which was more like Mrs. Moruzzi couldn’t fucking stand her husband or the filthy orphans he brought home to work for him).
One shot to the head. It actually pierced all the way through and hit the deer, too. The deer survived. Mr. Moruzzi—not so much.
Mrs. Moruzzi did everything right. She called the cops immediately. Told them her version of things. The Moruzzis were a well-off couple from the nice part of Chicago, who’d adopted three sons, all of whom were in college. No one would ever suspect homicide.
Mrs. Moruzzi was off the hook.
And so was I, or at least I’d thought.
Because a few years later, I did take a life.
The most precious life there was.
A life never meant to be taken.
“I think I found a really good therapist.”
Hallie sat in front of me on the plane. She angled her phone better, showing me a picture of a woman who looked like an older version of herself. “I still don’t know how I’ll afford her, seeing as I’m putting scissors to my parents’ credit card as soon as I get back to Los Angeles, but I’m thinking Keller might let me work at Main Squeeze.”
Staring into her blue eyes, all I could think about was how much I didn’t want her in Los Angeles. How much more affordable it would be for her to move elsewhere and start over. And, naturally, how it would make my life as her bodyguard.
“How will you make rent?”
Her face fell. She hadn’t thought of that. “I guess…I won’t? I’ll have to find something smaller. A studio, maybe. Would you mind very much moving into a studio apartment?”
I wouldn’t mind sharing a tuna can with this woman, but that wasn’t the issue.
“Los Angeles is expensive.” I tried another angle. “And unsafe.”
“Okay, Sherlock.” She quirked an eyebrow, sitting back as the plane took off. “What’s your point? You know I’m not moving to Texas.”
“Texas and California aren’t the only states in the federation.”
“You think I should move somewhere I don’t know?”
“I think you should start fresh.” I reframed it. “Go somewhere where rent is cheap, where the paparazzi won’t hound you.” Or any Bratva members.