Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 140742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 704(@200wpm)___ 563(@250wpm)___ 469(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 140742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 704(@200wpm)___ 563(@250wpm)___ 469(@300wpm)
“What are you doing here?!” he seethes in a harsh whisper.
“What happened to you?!” I ask, my eyes wide as I glance at his wound. “What happened?!” I demand again.
He jaw tics and as he glares, he whisper-shouts. “Keep your fucking voice down.”
My stomach drops. I blink at his tone and the fear in his expression. I lower my voice and ask, “What happened—”
“You need to get the fuck out of here now,” he demands quietly. “Leave, Joss. Leave.” He inhales shakily and his blue eyes fill with unshed tears. “Please leave. Go!”
My heart is slamming so hard inside my chest, I can barely breathe. Every bone in my body is telling me to heed his warning and leave, but he looks tattered. Suddenly, I’m wishing I’d told Livie ten minutes instead of thirty. I study him again.
“Go!” he urges again, eyes wide.
I take another step back, hoping my eyes convey what I’m thinking, “I’m going to go get help. I’ll get you out of whatever this is.”
I’m turning around when I hear a familiar voice say, “Are you fucking kidding? You promised you’d stay put!”
My entire body goes rigid. So many things happen at once—my jaw drops, my palms start to sweat, and my heart pounds even harder. So hard that I think it’ll truly give out on me. I tell myself to react. To turn around or scream or do something, but my body remains frozen. I hear them arguing. I don’t know how much time passes before I’m finally able to move, but when I do, I’m staring straight into Mallory’s brown eyes.
57
JOSSLYN
Idon’t understand what the fuck I’m looking at right now. An apparition, maybe, because there’s no way … there’s no fucking way. She looks different—her long, straight dirty blonde hair is dyed black and cut to her chin, and her clothes are baggy and casual—but it’s definitely Mallory.
“You died,” I say, mouth hanging open.
I look at Tate, who looks miserable and terrified.
He shakes his head. “I didn’t know.”
“Come inside,” Mallory says, pushing Tate out of the way and opening the door for me like I’m here for fucking lunch.
Even in my dumbfounded state, I know that’s not a good idea. The way Tate looked when he opened the door and told me to leave demands I go get help. The fear in his expression begs me to run. Heart in my throat, I glance to the driveway and back, trying to calculate how many steps there are between me and my car, but Mallory takes a step forward and lifts a gun to Tate’s temple.
“Come inside or he dies,” she says simply.
Tate’s entire body visibly starts to shake and I stop breathing and walk inside. She slams the door and I turn so my back isn’t facing her. Someone clears their throat, and my eyes fly in that direction. My stomach hollows when I see the man sitting there. John.
“Joss, you know John,” Mallory says with a hint of amusement.
He’s dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. When his eyes meet mine, he doesn’t look pleased, which gives me nothing to work with. Is he also her hostage? No. Tate is a hostage. He’s wounded and looks like he could pass out at any moment. John is holding a magazine. He looks … fine. Worried, but fine.
“Why?” I ask in a horrified whisper. John looks at the magazine in his hands.
“Have a seat,” Mallory says, waving the gun at the loveseat near the door.
My entire body shakes as I sit down. Tate hisses in pain as he sits beside me and I cross my arms tightly to keep from shaking. It occurs to me as I glance over at him that he’s been here with her for a while now. Hours? Days?
I look at the bloody gauze on his abdomen, and look at Mallory. “He needs help.”
“So sweet of you to worry about him even now,” she says, sitting in the chair across from us. “Don’t worry, I didn’t shoot him and it’s not as bad as it looks.”
“He needs help!” I say, shouting at John, who flicks his gaze up and ignores me.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?!”
Mallory points the gun in my direction, and I jolt with a gasp. “Don’t speak to him.”
She lowers the gun and sets it on her knee, pointing it toward us. Heart in my throat, I eye it warily, then look up to find her staring at me. She looks sober, which somehow makes this all the more terrifying. So many questions pop into my mind at once, but when I open my mouth, only one comes out.
“How?” I ask. “They identified you. They used your teeth to identify you!”
“Yes, I know. You’d be surprised how cheap it is to get them replaced in Europe.” The proud smile she wears, showing all of her teeth are intact, makes my stomach turn.