Total pages in book: 168
Estimated words: 159420 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 797(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159420 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 797(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
No, no, no. Jesus, fuck.
But I will myself to breathe. To calm down. To not fucking tear everything apart. I can’t help her if I lose control. If I let emotions and violence guide me. The time for that will be later. For now, I pat my jeans for my phone but realize I don’t have it. I run to the dresser and throw it open. I grab the other burner I have and dial Arsen’s number.
He picks up on the second ring, but I don’t let him speak. “Find Hank Turner.”
“What, why?”
“He’s the missin’ piece.”
“I don’t—”
“Find him,” I growl. “Now. I’m goin’ after her.”
“What the fuck do you mean? Did she—”
“She’s been taken.”
And as she was willingly walking into danger, she gave me a clue I’ve been fucking missing all this time. It’s Hank Turner. He’s the monster, isn’t he? She told me. She kept telling me it was her father. She said she wouldn’t let him win. But I didn’t listen. Not until she looked into the camera, all defiant, and it clicked. Hank Turner has been behind every tragedy, both mine and hers. And my gut says he’s behind this too. Not his enemy; not anyone else.
But him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THE LIGHT IN this room is glaring.
Or maybe it just feels that way after being holed up in the trunk of a car for hours. Which is how they transported me here, wherever this place is. My best guess is somewhere up in the mountains because the air is chilly and feels different when I breathe it in. Or maybe I’m just really, really afraid right now.
The room I’m in is small and windowless. Extremely cold with beige walls and a concrete floor. This reminds me of an interrogation room you’d see on TV and the one I was in back when I was looking for my best friend. God, that feels like ages ago, even though it’s only been a couple of months. I’m sitting in a chair—of course, tied up—and there’s a steel table in front of me. I twist my hands and immediately hiss when the rope cuts into my skin. Tears prickle my eyes, not because of the pain, but because it reminds me of him. Of his ropes, his knots. How when he seemed so rough, he was still so gentle with me. How every time he’d knot a rope around my hands, his fingers would linger on my skin. His thumb would rub over my pulse as if he wanted to see how he affected me. His fingers would thread with mine as if tying me with ropes wasn’t enough; he also wanted to hold my hands, capture them in his to make sure I never escaped. Make sure I stayed with him. Forever.
I slowly shake my head, trying to banish the thought. That is not what that was and I don’t have time to think about those things anymore. Not right now. Just then the door opens and I’m almost thankful for the interruption to my thoughts.
Almost.
Because in comes my father. Or rather, he’s wheeled in, complete with his breathing equipment and nose tubes, his blue eyes on me. For a few seconds, I only watch him get closer. My father’s been in a wheelchair for eight years now, ever since Arsen attacked him and almost choked him to death. You’d think his body would get frail, his shoulders would hunch and his legs that he never uses anymore would grow thin and weak. But my father looks just as formidable as he was back when he was completely healthy and able to walk.
I don’t know why. Maybe because he’s been such an intimidating figure in my life that no matter what happens to him, he’ll always be that in my eyes. Or maybe he really is that scary. Whatever it is, his silver hair looks just as polished as ever, his tie just as gleaming. His bespoke suit fits him well and underneath all of that, his shoulders are just as firm and strong as they were when he pushed my mother off a horse all those years ago. His face may look older than when I saw him last summer at the charity function he insisted I attend. But even marked with more lines and wrinkles and a couple of age spots here and there, he appears handsome and well groomed.
“You,” I say, my hands fisted behind my back.
Of course it’s him. Who else would it be? He’s been the only monster in my life. I just don’t understand why. Why would he want me dead? And why kidnap Radisson’s sister? Why pick Radisson to do his dirty work when I know he has various men at his disposal? So that’s what I ask him when he finally stops at the table, my voice low and almost calm-sounding, “Why?”