Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76298 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76298 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Nobody lives here. It’s all jungle and animals. I watch out for snakes, stupid Nathan and Dom still in my head, and walk faster as the sun starts to rise. I’ll have to skip my early class at this point, but whatever, it’s fine.
I need to do this, and I need to do it now.
I’ve been too afraid to come out here. I’ve been wanting desperately to see the place where my sister had her last moments, but I’ve been too afraid until now.
For some reason, I have the strength to do this.
I think of Emilio, his hand, the hot wax, his lips on my nipples, his fingers between my legs.
I don’t know what game he’s playing, but it’s breaking me.
And building me back up.
“Excuse me, miss?”
I jump and let out a shocked screech. I thought I was alone and I let myself drift off into daydream, picturing Emilio’s lips on my tits and his fingers between my legs. I whirl around and there’s a man standing at the juncture of several smaller paths I just walked past. He’s in hiking gear, middle-aged, pale white skin and a wipe floppy hat. I vaguely recognize him, but can’t place him.
“Uh, hi,” I say. “I’m just out for a walk.”
His face softens into a smile. “I am too. Are you lost? Do you need help getting back?”
“No, actually, I’m okay.”
“Are you sure? I’m Walt Wotherspoon, Dean of the College. I’m out here hiking a lot if I’m honest. The path you’re on heads out to the cliffs and it can get kind of dangerous toward the end.”
I shake my head, relaxing. Now I remember where I saw him. Walt Wotherspoon’s face is all over the Saint Parras College website. “I actually wanted to see the ocean on this side of the island.”
“Just be careful, okay? Don’t go too far past where the trees stop. Like I said, it gets dangerous.” He gives me a concerned smile. “Shout if you need me. I’ll be around.” He waves and walks off.
I’m not sure what to make of that encounter, but I press on, hurrying now and concentrating on my goal. The path gets steeper and rockier, and soon the trees begin to thin out as I reach the top of the path.
Ahead, the world ends, and the ocean begins.
It’s a massive blue glittering mass of slowly moving water. I stare, mesmerized by the scenic view. A comfortable breeze blows down my damp skin and the smell of salty ocean air hits me like perfume in a crowd. I drift forward, and ahead, the path turns sharply and skirts along the edge of an extremely steep cliff. It’s uneven, with big stones all over, and I can see what the dean meant by it being very dangerous.
This is where Lucy died.
I stare at the ground, at the path, and wonder why she was out here in the middle of the night. What was she doing with Emilio? Were they arguing? Was he angry with her for writing that article about him and did he shove her over the cliff’s edge? It’d be so easy, I can see that now—there’s almost no space between the side of the path and oblivion.
“You shouldn’t be up here, my pet.”
For the second time this morning, I jump around and release a shocked screech.
Emilio’s standing several feet further down the path in his running gear. He’s sweating and frowning at me, earbuds in his ears. I’m not sure if he followed me or if this is his usual running route, but I’m tempted to scream for Dean Wotherspoon.
This is where Lucy died. This is where Emilio threw her over the edge and he’s going to do the same thing to me.
I’m a problem, and this is the easy solution. Kill me and be done with it.
But no, he doesn’t know who I am. Why murder a random girl, even if she’s a little nosy?
Or maybe I’m wrong, and he does know. This could’ve been a game all along.
I’m freaking out. My head’s a mess. I never should’ve let him touch me last night but I couldn’t stop it.
I stumble back, overwhelmed. His hand on my throat. His fingers between my legs. His lips on my breasts. Hot wax on my skin.
Memory, pain, fear, it’s all swirling in my head.
I turn and stagger, hurrying down the path, trying to get my head straight. I know I shouldn’t be running, not this close to the edge, not in this state, but I can’t stop. I’m panicking, I’m freaking out, I know that. From a distance, I can feel myself losing control.
This happens sometimes. When I was younger, the panic attacks were even worse. My parents got concerned, or at least my mother did, and sent me to a therapist. That helped for a while, but the panic still hits me sometimes. I’m told it has something to do with the accident that ruined my voice box, but whatever the root cause may be, I’m feeling it now and I’m spiraling further and further away.