Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 119476 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 597(@200wpm)___ 478(@250wpm)___ 398(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119476 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 597(@200wpm)___ 478(@250wpm)___ 398(@300wpm)
His lips quirk up into a wry grin. “Let me guess, the diary?” He presses the button on the coffee maker, and it gurgles to life.
I slump down onto a barstool and rest my head against the cool granite of the island. “Yeah, man. I don’t know why, but I can’t stop reading it.”
“Huh.” He grabs a mug and pours it full, knowing I like it black. “Find anything useful?”
“No,” I mumble, tracking his movements as he slides the mug my way. “Not really.”
“Then why keep reading?” He rounds the island and sits down on the stool next to me.
“I—don’t even know how to explain it. I just have to know, you know? Like I’m compelled to finish it.”
“Is it even remotely interesting?” He scratches his chin thoughtfully. “I can’t imagine reading the innermost thoughts of a teenage girl would be, but—”
“Liar.” I cut him off, and we both start to grin. We’re two sides of the same coin, and he already knows exactly what I’m going to say. “Your ass loves all of those bullshit high-drama teen shows. What did you just finish rewatching… Gossip Girl?”
“Listen, asshole,” he starts, his lips quivering as he tries not to laugh. “There’s just something about the Upper East Side that does it for me.”
“More like the brunette chick does it for you.”
“Blair?” he groans. “Fuck yeah, she does. There’s just something about that bitchy attitude of hers… mmm.”
The fact that said attitude is reminiscent of Scarlet doesn’t escape my notice, but I don’t comment on it. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say.”
His lips thin as he pins me with a serious look. “I’m guessing you still haven’t heard from your dad?”
“Not a word.” I get wanting to be left alone; hell, other than Ellis—and occasionally Scarlet—I could probably go days without talking to another human being. There’s a reason I work as a park ranger, after all.
However, if someone needed to talk to me, they could damn sure get a hold of me. In this day and age, it’s not like you need a carrier pigeon. A text message would suffice.
“Try calling him.”
I slide off my stool and pad back into my room to grab my phone. Once I rejoin Ellis in the kitchen, I swipe my thumb across the screen to send the call.
“Put it on speaker.”
Nodding, I tap the button and place my phone down on the island. As expected, it rings a few times before going to voicemail.
“Try again.” The worry reflected at me in his eyes mirrors my own. Something sure as shit isn’t right, and I can’t seem to stop my brain from zeroing in on one hypothetical disaster after another.
Even though I know he won’t pick up, I send the call again, my heart lodged in my throat as I wait for it to connect.
This is insane—I don’t even get along with my old man all that well. I just know in my gut that something’s wrong, and no matter what I do, I can’t shake the feeling.
This time, the voicemail picks up after only two rings.
“He declined your call,” Ellis muses, a troubled look clouding his features as he drums his fingers on the countertop. “So, he has his phone on him.”
“I don’t know, man.” I scrub my hands over my face. “Something’s going on. I just don’t know what.”
His eyes light. “Have you tried calling Nora?”
It’s not a bad idea, except… “I don’t have her number.” I slump back.
“Shit.” He begins pacing back and forth in front of the sink. “Your dad’s always been…out there…but he’s never gone fully off the grid before, right?”
“Nah. Things were dicey for a while after Mom died, what with his drinking. But once your old man got him into AA, he was okay-ish.”
“Maybe he’s taking Grace’s death hard?”
“Could be,” I agree, even though I actually don’t. Call it a gut feeling or instinct, I don’t know, but something tells me it’s more than him mourning the loss of his second wife.
Maybe it’s my imagination running wild, but I have a bad feeling about all of this, and no matter what I do, I can’t seem to shake it.
Ellis turns and stalks into what should be our dining room but is mostly a store-all space, heading for his safe in the corner. He punches in the code, swings open the heavy door, and grabs his duty belt, securing it around his waist.
“I’ve gotta go, but I’ll stop by and check on him once I sign on.”
“Appreciate it, man,” I tell him, meaning it with every fiber of my being. We’ve been friends since we were in diapers, waded through thick and thin together, and I’d easily give my left nut to help him if he was ever in a pinch—the fact that I know he’d do the same is just icing on the cake.