Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Hayden’s parents’ estate on Butterworth Road sat on five acres, with trees all around the property and a spectacular view of Mount Rainier. It was like a resort, that’s how big it was. It was just shy of twenty-five thousand square feet, with ten bedrooms, fifteen bathrooms, and a great room you could walk right out of onto the enormous back patio. There were so many sets of French doors… Then two kitchens and, Hayden said, butler’s pantries, which I nodded when he said it but had no idea what that was. They had a movie theater, a room with a pool table and Ping-Pong, and even a pinball machine. I noted a full bar, me and everyone else taking the tour, saw the wine cellar and then the basketball and racquetball courts, the sauna and weight room, the tennis court and a putting green and sand trap. You could also moor your yacht, and a friend’s, in the slips at the end of the dock. I mean, it was crazy. Plus, the inside was all marble and gold and crystal chandeliers. There were a million places to sit inside, room after room of white couches and fireplaces, and outside, the grounds were pristine, with stone benches beside fountains and man-made ponds. It looked like some Greek temple with marble dolphins and columns and vases filled with flowering plants.
In Mrs. Burdine’s bathroom, there were steps that led up to her bathtub, and the bathroom itself was nearly as big as my house. It was a jaw-droppingly spectacular place, and I laughed at Bodhi when I got back with Hayden from the tour and met him in the great room.
“What?”
I shook my head.
“No, come on,” he goaded me.
“Man, are you kidding?”
“It’s not my home, Jed. It belongs to Hayden’s parents.”
I snorted as I walked over and took a seat on the end of the couch. He was right behind me, taking a seat close so that, as usual, our knees were wedged together.
“Bodhi,” Hayden called out.
When he turned, Hayden must have gestured to him because he got up and left.
Moments later, a little girl, I was guessing maybe seven or eight, plopped down next to me. She was in jeans and a long-sleeve T-shirt which seemed odd on such a warm day. She had sneakers on too. I didn’t say anything—I’d learned from years of dealing with kids in many different situations that waiting was best.
“Hi,” she said after several moments.
“Hi,” I returned, smiling at her.
“What’s your name?”
“My name’s Jed. What’s yours?”
“Stella.”
“Nice to meet you, Stella.”
“Is Jed short for something?”
“What makes you think that?”
“Because Ted is short for Theodore.”
“How do you know?” I asked, because it was what I did with kids.
“My desk partner at school, that means our desks face each other,” she explained, “his name is Theodore, but he goes by Ted, not Theo.”
“I see,” I said. “Well, my name is Josiah, which technically should shorten to Joe, but my mother didn’t like that, so she called me Jed. Normally Jed is short for Jedidiah, but that’s not how it worked out for me.”
She nodded like she understood. “Okay.”
There was a lull, and then she took a breath. “How did you get hurt?” she asked, getting right to the heart of the matter.
“I was shot,” I stated, because lying to kids was dumb.
“Why did someone shoot you?”
“I’m a deputy US marshal,” I said, lifting the Henley I was wearing over my T-shirt so she could see the star on my belt. “So every now and then, I get shot at.”
“Because bad guys.”
“That’s right.”
She appeared skeptical.
“I don’t usually get hit, you understand, and even when I do, I have a vest and the bullets get stopped so they can’t go into my body and make me bleed.”
“Like on TV.”
It was easiest, so I went with that. “Correct,” I agreed, looking out at the lake.
“Does deputy US marshal mean like a police officer?”
“It does. We all catch bad guys.”
“That’s good.”
The question was, why was that good? And yes, to a child, catching bad guys would always be a positive thing, but she didn’t say it offhand, like a throwaway piece of conversation. Her words had more weight and I heard it in her voice. “How old are you?”
“Seven.”
“Where are your folks?”
“My mom is in New York, where I live most of the year, and my dad is in a speedboat on the lake, teaching Vanessa—that’s his girlfriend—how to ski.”
“She doesn’t know how to ski?”
She shook her head.
“I don’t either.”
“My dad could teach you, but you wouldn’t be able to hold the handle ’cause you’re hurt.”
“True. So probably right now isn’t the time for me to learn.”
She nodded.
“You didn’t wanna go with your dad and Vanessa?”
“No,” she whispered.
“Do you know how to water-ski?”
“No, but Vanessa likes to spend time with Dad by herself.”