Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 97364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
“You bellend, I’m not playing this game.”
“Can’t say I’ve ever heard you speak to me like this. What happened to respecting your elders?”
“You have to be worthy of my respect. What you did to Nellie is not worthy of my respect.”
He shrugs, returning his attention to his book. “I didn’t hear her complain.”
Every cell in my body grasps for a breath, a shred of control, a way to calm down. This is not good for me. This is exactly why I had to leave London. “You need to go. I can’t have you here. You told me to choose myself and it wouldn’t be selfish. I’m asking you to leave … for me.”
“Don’t you want to know what Nellie said to me in the loo?”
My stomach clenches as my nose wrinkles. “No.”
He frowns. “Not about that. She said Harold cheated on her once and it ruined everything.”
I grunt, taking a few steps toward my bedroom before stopping again. “Once? She said he cheated on her once?”
“Now, that’s my girl. What does that tell you?”
I turn. “That’s what happened. She caught him cheating on her, but …” I shake my head. “That doesn’t drive the average person to completely lose it. There has to be more.”
“Well, I’m happy to help get more out of her if you need me to.”
“Go away. You can’t stay here,” I call before shutting my bedroom door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
My name is Scarlet Stone, and I know the difference between right and wrong. I just haven’t mastered the art of giving a shit about it.
I dream of Theo again. I wake up in a sweat again. And … with my hand in my knickers. This is not a life.
To my surprise, the man who refuses to follow instructions is gone. I tear the sticky note off the fridge.
Ruby,
I’m off doing some sightseeing. I’ll be back—when I’m back. Then we can talk about our living arrangements after you’ve had time to reconsider.
~Oscar
“Please be sightseeing in Alaska,” I mumble to myself as I throw the note in the bin.
After a quick shower, I juice, pack my rucksack, and bike to the Moores’. There aren’t enough miles between my flat and their mansion to work out the right thing to say to Nellie when I see her.
Oscar.
Nellie.
The loo.
There are no words.
“Good morning, Miss Stone.”
“Scarlet,” I correct her.
“Scarlet.” Sofia smiles. “Mrs. Moore is taking a bath.”
Brilliant idea. She needs to wash everything about the British bloke from yesterday clean from her body—and her mind. I wish I could do the same.
“I’m going to check on her, maybe choose something for her to wear today.”
After several unanswered knocks on her bedroom door, I open it a few inches. “Nellie? Hello?”
A crack of light peeks from the partially-shut bathroom door. Nellie’s voice mixes with the running water. Each butchered note of a song I’ve never heard before makes me cringe. I give her some privacy, opting to explore her wardrobe for something that doesn’t say “crazy lady” nor “adulterous twat.” Something wholesome would be nice.
“Is it too hot for a turtle neck and cardigan?” I grin, sifting through rows of hanging clothes and drawers of jumpers, hosiery, and lingerie. “Nellie Moore …” I whisper and shake my head, holding up a red lace teddy. Folding the tiny and no doubt expensive bit of nothing, I return it to the drawer. The drawer won’t close. Something seems to be behind it.
Nellie’s harmonic catastrophe continues—the nerve-grating sound of a donkey braying infused with a heavy dose of monkey screeching. It’s really the most unexpected noise coming from a woman who, on the outside, is quite stunning.
After some tedious manipulating, I manage to pull the drawer completely out. Threading my arm in the empty hole, I fish out the culprit. It’s a honey and bronze leather journal with a latching strap.
“Put it back,” I whisper, tracing the strap with the pad of my finger. Curiosity drives the discovery of new frontiers. Okay, that’s what Oscar always tells me. However, acting on it all the time is a disease—one for which I have yet to find the cure.
My name is Scarlet Stone, and I know the difference between right and wrong. I just haven’t mastered the art of giving a shit about it.
Before reason can jump in and rescue my unscrupulous impulse, I have the journal open, my eyes tracking the first sentence of the first entry.
Bell,
I was prepared to leave Harold today, but the psychiatrist declared me insane. Do you think I’m insane?
~Nel
I flip the page.
Bell,
It’s official. I’m insane. I decided not to leave Harold, assuming he would leave me, but he’s still here.
~Nel
Next page. This is so wrong.
Bell,
I can’t let that cheating bastard get away with it. Do you understand? Well, I’m sure you do.
~Nel
Bell,
I busted a seven-thousand-dollar mirror today because I couldn’t stand my reflection. Did you ever think about your mortality? Suicide isn’t always selfish. Sometimes it’s making the hard decision so other people don’t have to make it for you. It’s crazy how much I’ve envied you lately.