Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74604 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74604 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
CHAPTER SEVEN
Miranda
What the hell did I just say?
Surely not that I wanted him to live with me.
Albeit temporarily.
I mean, that was insane.
I never lived with anyone. Not even my most serious boyfriend, back before I got my little empire going. I always needed my space. I valued my privacy. I didn’t want anything to alter my routines or invade the peace I found in the sanctuary that was my personal space.
“That can absolutely be arranged,” he told me before I could take the words back. Because I was absolutely going to take them back. Right? “I just need to take a trip back to Navesink Bank to pick up some of my things.”
“Can I go with you?” I asked, feeling my eyes turn to saucers as I realized what I’d just said. “I would like to meet your boss,” I added, trying to cover my tracks, trying to make it seem less like I was interested in Brock’s world.
“Yes, of course. Sawyer would love to meet you. Then I can just swing by my place, pack a few things, and we can be back here before the end of the night. Are you working late tomorrow night?”
Not if those were the plans.
And I was going to choose to not think about why I was going to leave work early, shirking important responsibilities, to go see the home of a man I barely knew, one I was going to allow to live with me.
Because if I thought about that too hard, I might come to the conclusion that I belonged in the psych ward I’d just been released from.
“No, actually,” I said, shaking my head, trying to be casual. “I underestimated just how capable Cam was. He got me a little ahead on a couple of little projects. So I don’t need to stay as late as usual while we are figuring some of these things out.”
“Great. It’s only about an hour and twenty minutes from here to there,” he told me.
“Sounds… is that the friend?” I asked when his phone started bleeping.
Putting down his food, he checked his texts.
“Just confirming what I have pretty much concluded myself,” he said. “There were no cops or ambulances dispatched here that night. But he did find that there was a call for a woman who’d attempted suicide several blocks away.”
“Where?” I asked, straightening, truly not believing I would have just… taken a walk with someone late at night when I knew I had food coming. Maybe I would have taken a car or a cab if I thought it was something serious. But not walk. At night. In leisurewear. Just because someone wanted me to.
“In an alley,” he told me, shaking his head.
“They found me in an alley?”
“Yes.”
“Someone took me to an alley, slit my wrist, and then left me there to die?” I asked, jaw–and therefore my tone—getting sharp.
“That’s what it sounds like,” he agreed, keeping calm to offset my escalating mood.
“Why the ever-loving hell would the cops, paramedics, or the doctors at the hospital believe that I would try to take my own life in a disgusting, garbage-ridden alley?”
“They might not have thought it was so weird. Most women who attempt or complete suicide, do so in places where they won’t leave a mess for loved ones to clean up. So the bathtub is popular. But so is their car. Or outside somewhere that wouldn’t taint anything of theirs.”
I got that.
I did.
“But an alley?” I pressed.
“Yeah, if they’d found you in a park or something, I might even say that, hey, you had a bad night. But an alley is suspicious. But, keep in mind, that these people had no idea who you were. For all they knew, you were homeless or looking for a fix or something like that. You might be wealthy, but you’re not a celebrity. They would have no reason to question the location you were found in.”
“I guess that’s true,” I agreed, though it didn’t make the anger inside me feel any less hot and destructive.
Because somebody, likely someone who knew me, had left me to die in a trash-filled alley.
Treating me, in turn, as trash as well.
That burned more than it had any right to.
Mixed with that anger, though, was a deep sort of sadness.
I didn’t trust anyone as it was.
The idea that someone in my very tight circle could have done that to me…
“Hey, don’t let it get to you. What they did has nothing to do with you, and everything to do with them.”
“I know. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting,” I told him, reaching for my wine.
“I have to ask you this, and I understand if it is going to upset you, but I have to do it.”
“Okay,” I agreed, tensing.
“Could it have been Cam?” he asked.
“No way. You said it yourself. He tracked you down, came to you, and even tried to pay you for this job. That makes no sense if he’d done it.”