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)
The same way he acted after your mom died, a sinister voice whispers in the back of my mind, hinting at something I’ve always wondered. I mean, what are the chances of a man losing two wives, both to mysterious illnesses?
Add in that he’s now the sole caregiver for a teenage girl, and yeah, I’m fucking worried.
The trees surrounding the cabin I share with Ellis pass in a blur as I near our property. Maybe I’ll call him again after dinner. Hell, maybe I’ll just go by there, catch him unaware and force him to show me he’s okay.
I make a quick pitstop at the mailbox to grab the mail, tossing it in the passenger seat before turning down our long, winding driveway.
“Should’ve stopped for a burger,” I mutter under my breath, thinking of our empty fridge and bare-as-fuck pantry as I throw my truck into park and cut the engine. “A big, juicy burger.”
I’m debating heading back into town to get one when a flash of orange in the passenger seat catches my eye.
I grab for it, surprised to find a very familiar-looking notebook tucked in the middle of my mail pile.
Why is Nora’s—
My line of thinking smashes into a brick wall when I turn it over and find a neon-yellow sticky note pressed to the front with the words please read me scrawled sloppily across it.
“What in the actual fuck?” I ask out loud, despite there being no one to answer me. “I need a drink to deal with this shit.”
Decision made, I grab the mail—and the notebook—and head into the house, ready to get to the bottom of this. Dinner’s going to have to wait.
DIARY ENTRY, AGE 13
Dear Diary,
You don’t know me yet, but you will. Mama says we’ll be good friends. Seems weird since you’re just a fancy notebook, but I’m willing to try anything at least once… Mama says I take after my dad in that way.
I keep expecting him to walk through the front door any minute, with a bouquet of daisies for Mama and a new book for me, but he’s not going to. Not tonight, or ever again, because he died yesterday at exactly nine-oh-two in the morning. A pretty stupid time of day to die, if you ask me—even if I can’t think of a better one. It sounds silly, but I guess I always thought he was unbeatable, like a superhero…
Only the villain that took him out was his own body—glioblastoma, whatever that is.
I haven’t cried yet. Mama’s worried. She keeps telling me it’s okay to cry, but I’m not sure if she’s saying it because I’m not or because she can’t stop. It’s not that I’m not sad, because I am. My dad was the best man to ever live, but I know crying won’t bring him back. I can cry enough tears to fill an ocean, and he’ll still be gone.
But Mama doesn’t get it. She thinks I’m “internalizing” or something. She says it’s not healthy to hold it all in, and I guess she’d know, seeing as she’s a shrink. So, she got me you, and told me to put my pain to paper, so here we go.
I’m not entirely sure it’ll work, but like I said, I’m willing to try…
Skeptically, Nora
“Are you ready to go?” Scarlet, my on-and-off girlfriend, asks. The hint of irritation tinging her tone tells me I’ve either forgotten something important or it’s not the first time she’s asked. Probably both, if I’m being honest.
Rolling my shoulders, I suck in a steadying breath and force my gaze away from Nora’s diary.
She never lets the leather-bound notebook out of her sight, and I truly mean never, which makes finding it between my water bill and a stack of junk mail pretty damn strange.
Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t give one single fuck about the contents of an eighteen-year-old girl’s diary, but given everything that’s happened recently, let’s just say my interest is piqued.
I can’t explain it, but something deep in my gut is telling me I need to read it, though given the first entry, I can’t possibly fathom why. So far, the only thing Nora and I have in common is that we’re both members of the dead parent club. Who knows—maybe this is her weird way of trauma-bonding?
In the last few months, she’s really drawn into herself. Well, more into herself, I should say. She’s always been quiet and reserved, the kind of kid who prefers the company of characters in a book than her peers. But the few times I’ve seen her since Grace passed, she’s almost become a shadow of herself—like she’s slowly fading away to nothing at all.
Dad says she’s trouble, but I find it hard to believe. She seems so soft; fragile even. Not just emotionally but physically, too. A strong wind could probably knock her on her ass.