Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 141464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Grinning like a hopeless romantic, I stare out the window.
“So,” Paul says after a beat, “are you almost done with all the Hall family’s requests? Think your biker boyfriend and all his buddies are going to show up for the service?”
That’s enough to wipe the smile from my lips. “I’m not sure.”
Jigsaw was helping me locate a Harley Davidson Hearse Funeral Chopper from the list Mr. Hall’s daughter gave us. Thank God Jigsaw left his notes so I could finish where he left off.
Almost like he did it intentionally.
Like he planned to vanish from my life.
CHAPTER FIVE
Jigsaw
Still reeling from Cain’s reappearance in my life, I need distance. The open road. I don’t have a particular destination in mind. All I need is my bike, the road, and the engine to drown out my thoughts.
I don’t bother telling anyone where I’m headed and don’t know how long I’ll be gone. I head east, riding until I pass into Massachusetts, then take I-95 north until I cross the Maine state line.
Wind tugs at the edges of my sleeves as I take the roads toward the coast, trading highway fumes for fresh salty air.
Shuttered seafood joints and colorful shops line the streets as I enter a small town. I lean right, down a hill, and finally roll into a small parking lot. The entrance to a public beach straight ahead.
The same beach where I’d recklessly and randomly buried the last pieces of my father years ago, after leaving Jezzie with my aunt.
Have the bones been found by now? Dug up by some dog? That would be poetic since my father treated animals with about the same respect he treated humans.
Or have those pieces of him washed out to sea?
I can’t remember the exact spot, but it doesn’t matter. I’m not here to collect them.
Only a few cars are parked in between the faintly drawn lines. I lazily circle the lot, then pull into a spot designated for motorcycles. I cut the engine, and the quieter roar of the ocean fills the silence.
Wind whips around my face as I pull my helmet off and stretch my back. Ancient aches awaken from the hours of riding. I roll my shoulders and crack my neck.
Colorful towels hang from balconies of the hotel next door, flapping in the breeze. Off-season or not, a few people must be staying here. Maybe that’s where I’ll check in later. Find myself a lobster dinner, bring it back to my room, and eat on the balcony while the sun goes down.
I follow the pavement to the sandy edge and stop to unlace my boots, then strip off my socks and roll up my jeans. Sinking my toes into the cool sand, I make my way to the water’s edge. Icy water laps at my feet. A larger wave rolls in and slaps my ankles. The icy bite stings but I welcome it—reminds me I’m alive.
Rolled or not, my jeans end up soaked in salt water. I back up a few steps and plop down in the softer sand. Stretching out my legs, I lean back and stare at the blue-gray water. I try to find peace in the roar, but it doesn’t come.
Seagulls approach, waddling over the sand, searching for treats. They circle near me, then back off.
“Sorry, guys. I got nothing.” I pick up a handful of sand, letting it slide through my fingers. “Don’t you dare fucking shit on me,” I warn the big, fat, winged rats.
They squawk and fly off.
The sea’s rough. Waves relentless. It’s too cold for lying out on a towel but people are walking or jogging along the beach. Dogs frolic near the water.
It’s peaceful.
But I’m still restless.
Restless and five hours from home.
My mind’s churning as hard as the ocean but outside, I’m calm. Still, like the rocks stretching into the sea.
A low grunt to my left is my only warning before a big ball of fur and drool smears a wet, cold nose on my cheek.
“Chewy! No!” a woman shouts.
Hot breath blasts over me and I turn to face a grinning big, fluffy, gray and white dog. “Hello to you too.”
He pants harder. Huh. Huh. Huh.
Since he doesn’t seem like he’s going to rip my hand off, I reach over and scratch behind his ear, searching for a collar but just finding more layers of fur. “I assume you belong to the woman frantically running over the sand?”
Huh. Huh. Huh.
“You must be well-cared for. You don’t stink as much as you look like you would.” Unbothered by the back-handed compliment, he closes his eyes, leans into my petting and lets his tongue hang out.
“I’m so sorry,” the breathless woman says as she approaches. “Did he bother you?”
“Nope. He’s been very polite.”
“Polite my ass.” She holds up a leash and collar. “He’s an escape artist. Sorry. He’s a rescue. I’ve only had him for a few days.”