Total pages in book: 165
Estimated words: 159976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
I walk over to the table at the end of the row, feeling my heart start to hammer in my chest. A girl lays on the slab, her mid-section covered with a sheet, and the puncture mark from embalming sits right below the rope burn around her neck. I’d read about her online today. Figured she’d be here by now.
Her wet, red hair mats to her head, and I grip the side of the table, brushing her fingers. Her nails are covered in chipped pink nail polish that looks like a cheap brand you get at the grocery store.
“Did you know her?” I hear someone ask.
I don’t have to turn around to recognize Sylvia Gates’ voice. Owner of Wind House, the only funeral home in town.
I gaze at the girl’s neck, swallowing the image of the moment she slipped the rope around it.
And what most likely drove her to it.
“She went to public school.” I force my voice firm. “But I’ve seen her around town.”
She’s almost my age—a year younger, I think. Did Liv know her?
Mrs. Gates walks around the other side of the table, clean scrubs on. “You don’t have to be here, Clay.”
She’s worried I’ll get triggered, and then she’ll have to explain to my parents why she lets me sneak in here at least once a week.
Fuck it. I don’t want to be home, so… I pull off my hood and tie my hair back into a ponytail, ready to work as I draw in a deep breath and exhale.
I’ll have to fix the nail polish. I’d love to change it altogether, but if she has it on, she must’ve liked it, so I suppose I should honor her style. I’m sure I have something as equally hideous in my collection from when I was twelve that I can use.
I push up my sleeves and get to work, feeling my heart calm down again as I busy myself. But my thoughts still linger on her. What would Olivia Jaeger say if she saw me now?
Maybe it would be the one time she couldn’t say anything.
Sometimes I feel like I want her to know me. Sometimes I don’t want her to know anything but me.
And other times, I’m glad she doesn’t have a clue.
I CLIMB OFF the back of the bike and unfasten the strap under my chin. “Thanks,” I tell Iron.
I dump the helmet between my brother’s legs, but he just sucks in a drag from his cigarette, looking around me—past me, beyond me—with his lids half-hooded.
I clutch my backpack straps. “What?”
He hesitates a moment, looks down, and then shakes his head as he takes another puff. “I only approve of Macon paying for this place because I knew you wouldn’t be interested in the guys ogling the short skirts.”
The scent of the dogwoods lining the walkway up to the school wafts in the morning breeze, and although it’s only February, I can tell they’re about to bloom. The wind sweeps through the plumeria already decorating the campus, and students move across the circular driveway, while others climb out of cars dropping them off for various sports or club meetings before school.
Chills spread up my bare legs from the rare bite in the air. Rain is coming. “What about women checking me out?” I tease. “Worried about them?”
“Strangely, no.” He looks amused. “They can’t get you pregnant.”
I scoff, looking right and see a few students heading down the sidewalk toward us and the front of the school.
Clay Collins meets my eyes as she passes with her gray Fjällräven backpack, little pink octopuses drawn on the front pocket, and she tries so hard to look bored and intolerant. But the mischief playing on her lips warns me she had a lot of fun in the dress shop last night. We’re not done.
We’re never done.
Her gaze flicks to Iron, and I turn back to him, seeing his eyes lock on her, as well, as he smokes the last of his cigarette. But whereas he’s well aware of the shit she throws my way, he looks like he’s entertaining ideas of all the things he could do with her in a dark room.
Or a back seat. Idiot.
“You approve of Macon paying for this place,” I say, “so you can ogle Catholic girls in their short skirts when you drop me off every day.”
“She has to be eighteen by now, right?”
I shake my head. “Hallmark Christmas movie heroines aren’t your type.”
“Everyone is my type when they’re naked.”
Gross. I back away, flipping him the middle finger. “See you after school.”
But he shakes his head, stopping me. “Nope. Come here.” He flicks his cigarette, the butt still burning as it lays in the school drive. “This could be it.”
He holds out his arm, a warm, cocky smile on his mouth.
I sigh, half-rolling my eyes before I come back in and embrace him.