Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 60965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
“Whatever it is that’s gotten into you,” my father continues as he breaks eye contact and shakes his head. “I said I’m sorry about Avery,” he adds and presses his lips into a thin line. “You weren’t here when she came in.” He turns in his chair and looks out of the window. “Or Anderson.” He runs a hand down his face and stares out at the city skyline.
“There are choices we make that have to be done quickly.” He swallows thickly. “I was only trying to protect you.”
I finally take the seat opposite him slowly and wait for him to face me. “No. Stop protecting me.” I shake my head slowly and hold his gaze. “I don’t want your idea of protection.”
“Well maybe this will help,” he says as he slides the papers over to me. “Liam Olsen is in the hole, and his life is falling apart.”
I hesitantly look through the stack, lifting the corner of the top sheet to look at the next and the one after that. They’re all copies of bill after bill he’s racked up over the last year.
“We need to talk about what happened the other night before the gala.”
It takes me a moment before I realize he’s talking about the man with the gun. The intruder with a syringe. An obvious fucking hit. “Someone was hired to kill Jules. I don’t know who or why, but it was a hit.”
“Are you sure?” my father asks me.
“He could have killed me, he could have turned when I was chasing him and shot me. But then again he could have killed Jules too.”
“Then why didn’t he?”
I remember the syringe, the heroin. I shift in my seat, staring at my father as I tell him, “He had a syringe on him. He didn’t want the hit to be obvious.”
My father’s expression doesn’t change; he doesn’t give anything away. “A syringe?”
“Filled with heroin,” I tell him and this time he breaks eye contact. He pulls his jacket down and clears his throat, obviously uncomfortable.
“Your mother,” he starts to say but doesn’t finish. I give him a moment, again remembering the way my mother lay there on the tiled bathroom floor. “So, this is where that shit is coming from?” His question is laced with feigned anger. More than anything, it’s a veil over his sadness.
I nod once, not trusting myself to respond verbally.
He nods, although he doesn’t look me in the eyes. “Your mother...” he starts to say again and then stops. He waves the thought away, shaking his head and dropping the discussion entirely. I’ve never seen my father so visibly shaken.
“I don’t see why anyone would want you or Jules dead other than Olsen. Even then, it would have to be because of money and I’ve made it clear to him that the debt owed to me is void. So killing you would most likely be related to some sort of quarrel between the two of you.” He finally looks me in the eyes again before adding, “After last night, there must be something between you two… Undoubtedly.”
I don’t know what possessed Liam to go after Jules last night. I didn’t take him for that kind of a man. An arrogant ass, yes. A man who’d hurt a woman? I huff at the thought. Any man who would do something like that isn’t a man.
“If not Olsen, who else?”
Every hair stands on end and a chill flows down my skin. I question telling my father about Anderson, the entire truth. I have no one else, my back’s against a wall, and this is for Jules. I would do anything for Jules. If that means confessing murder to a murderer, so be it.
I look my father in the eye as I tell him, “I killed Jace Anderson and someone knows.”
I wait for a reaction and the only one I get is that his brows raise slightly and he tilts his head to the side, considering.
“I see,” he says after a moment and again turns away from his seat. His foot taps against the desk as he thinks. “Over Avery, I assume?” he says.
I nod once. He has the dignity to look ashamed for a split second.
“You didn’t love her. You didn’t want her. You told me that much.”
“That doesn’t make it right,” I say and grip the armrests, feeling the anger rise, but he holds up his hands in both defense and understanding.
It’s quiet for a moment, with only the ticking of the clock counting the seconds to keep us company as my father takes in the truth of what happened.
Finally, he looks up and says, “You could have come to me.”
“I was angry at you too,” I say and his eyes spark with indignation at my admission.
As if just now putting the pieces together, his expression changes and he asks, “That’s why Jules went to the police? She knows?”