Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 62480 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62480 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
CHAPTER TWELVE
Noah leaves for work at nine the next morning. Waking up next to him is everything. His arm thrown over my middle and his warm breath on the back of my neck. To sleep so soundly while sharing my space with someone is a revelation. The way we fit together seems perfect and simple so far. I don’t want to get ahead of myself. I feel like cool girls live in the moment. They definitely don’t indulge in a mental breakdown before breakfast. But death can do things to you. And the knowledge that Grace was murdered sits heavy in me like a stone.
I stumble down to the kitchen and make myself some coffee. Then I sit on the back steps beneath a clear blue sky while the very good boy performs a thorough inspection of the backyard. Auggie has settled in with no problems (give or take eating a pillow) and I love having him around.
A story on corruption amongst local cops has the media too busy to hang around my door. The sheriff’s department is the shiny new dramatic headline on the local newspaper’s site. The update on Grace’s murder is sparse as can be. Nothing more than a rehash of previously reported facts with nothing new on offer. Though there is a photo of my aunt walking into the office of the Chief Medical Examiner. She seems so alone. I know logically there was nothing I could do to save my cousin. But the feelings of guilt linger just the same.
No idea what to do about it yet, however.
The desktop computer I do my work on is set up in the corner of the dining room on a nice old wooden desk. The study or war room is too full of the mission for me to be able to work in there. To be able to concentrate effectively. Certain areas of my life require compartmentalizing. Numbers were never really my thing. Odd how data inputting has become my main source of income. Guess life just happens like that sometimes.
The knock on my door comes at around midday. Auggie barks his little heart out. Just gives the noise his utmost commitment. I check the security camera on my cell and swear up a storm. Her presence here isn’t a complete surprise. However, surely I can be forgiven for hoping this particular shitshow wouldn’t happen.
“That’s enough. Bed,” I tell the very good boy. And he gives me a thoroughly disappointed expression but does as asked. It’s with a heavy-ass heart that I unlock and open the door. “Hello, Aunt Beth.”
She gives a sharp nod to the interior of the house, and I step back to let her enter. I don’t love letting her into my safe space any more than I did the detective. But doing this on the doorstep isn’t the answer. The woman used to intimidate the heck out of me when I was a child. Now, however, she seems smaller and a good deal less scary somehow.
I always knew she didn’t like me. It wasn’t something she particularly bothered to hide. Though to be fair, it’s not like she behaved as if she liked anyone. The fights she and Grandma used to get into. She’d made the walls of the old house shake with her sharp words. Guess some people are just born bitter and angry.
Her hair is the same perfect shade of platinum blonde as I remember. And her features a sharper version of her daughter’s. She wears her grief like armor. Though the black sheath dress she’s wearing is creased as fuck. Something she never would have allowed under normal circumstances. My living room and life in general are given a derogatory sniff. But honestly, if that’s the worst she does I’ll count myself lucky.
“What was Grace doing here?” Her lips are a tight line. “It can’t have been just to visit. She hadn’t thought about you in years.”
The comment is ouch though probably honest. “She was on a fishing expedition for the people making the documentary and podcast about me.”
“Why was she involved with those cockroaches?”
“Guess she needed the money. She said she was broke.”
Her brows draw down tightly. “What?”
“Apparently the deposits on stuff for the wedding and getting kicked out by her ex really set her back.”
“Why didn’t she tell me?” And she seems so honestly perplexed that her daughter didn’t feel comfortable going to her during a time of trouble. “I would have helped her. But I hadn’t heard from her in weeks.”
My mouth opens and then closes. Because what the fuck can I even say? Telling a freshly bereaved mother that she’s both horrific and terrifying is not the answer. Honesty is all well and good, but it’s not going to help anyone right now.
She might even have figured the answer out for herself. Because her chin trembles as she asks, “And how, Sidney, did my daughter end up dead?”