Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
But she only buys diapers—a small package of them. Which makes me wonder if money’s tight. I don’t know much about babies, but I would think that—like most things—the larger the quantity, the cheaper the per-unit cost. When she goes to the checkout, fluorescent lighting illuminates her dark roots. She’s in need of some time at the salon, another hint that maybe money’s an issue. Maybe there’s a financial goal here? Is she Hannah and looking for a payout to keep quiet? Another angle to consider. Though what is she waiting for, if that’s her game?
I slip back outside while she’s still checking out and walk to my car, parked a few rows over from hers. The morning is damp, humid. The moisture is inescapable, and I huff out a breath. Louisiana is, for many reasons, claustrophobic.
Her last stop is the CPS office. She parks at the back of the lot, despite the fact that the sun is only now fully up, and walks in with her nose in her phone, not even glancing around. That wouldn’t fly in New York. Was I once so trusting? Maybe it’s okay in small-town life.
This might take a long time—hours, even—so I pop some Advil for my back, pull out my laptop, tap it to life, and get to work on the chapters my students have submitted. I’ve been avoiding them for obvious reasons, but their next rounds are due soon, and I owe them feedback. I work on one that seems to be an attempt to bring vampire romance back, adding a few suggestions here and there, recommending they make it fresh, not a repeat of what’s already been done, and then I blow out a breath and force myself to open the file I’ve been avoiding.
Hannah’s story.
Whoever “Hannah” really is.
Around me, the parking lot slowly fills up, but the chapters suck me in as I reread them. Hannah is either a good writer or the scenes are vivid because I already know the story. I leave comments about a few minor things—staying in a particular tense, removing filler words that aren’t necessary. But then I get an idea.
What about adding a plotline about a friend Jocelyn confides in about her relationship with her teacher? That would help develop your character beyond her interaction with Mr. Sawyer.
I type the comment and my heart races faster as I reread it. I add, Let’s call her Lizzie as a placeholder. Lizzie could appear as a friend . . . I taste blood as I bite down and continue, Later she could turn out to have a greater role in the story.
Not the sort of advice I give, usually. My writing students need to choose their own plotlines, develop their own characters. But this person isn’t a normal student—they’re messing with me. So I’ll mess with them back. Let them know that I know. A smirk plays on my lips as I imagine them—whoever they are . . . Sam? Ivy? My own freaking mother?—reading the notes and realizing their game has just been taken up a notch.
A rap at the window jolts me from my thoughts. I look up, expecting to see Ivy staring down at me with surprise in her eyes. But instead, I see a face I’d hoped not to run into again.
Wendell Unger. Chief Wendell Unger.
Is he following me? He must be. I know this town is small, but twice in as many days?
I slap my laptop shut and creak down the window a bit. My heart thumps away in my chest, nerves telling me this can’t be a coincidence. Why didn’t I pay more attention to my rearview mirror? I’d been so focused on following, I didn’t consider being followed. Does he know? Oh God, a thought smacks me in the face—and it’s not the first time I’ve considered it. What if he’s working with Sam? Some kind of multistate investigation. That happens, right? Though I doubt the detective in New York would be sleeping with the suspect . . .
“Good morning, Ms. Davis.”
“Hello, Chief Unger.”
“May I”—he gestures to the car—“inquire what you’re doing camped out in a parking lot? Again?”
I point at the laptop. “Getting some work done while I wait on a friend. How about you?”
“I frequent the CPS office, unfortunately. Nature of the job.” He presses his lips together. “Why are you waitin’ out here?”
My gaze drifts toward the front of the building. “Umm . . . I came to visit a friend, but she’s out of the office. Figured I’d wait for her here so I’m not in the way inside.”
“Mrs. Ivy Leighton?”
How the hell does he know? “Um, yes. Ivy.” I try not to let him see that I’m rattled. Maybe in a town this small, there aren’t many people who work at CPS. Maybe he knows we’re about the same age, maybe—