Total pages in book: 41
Estimated words: 37645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 188(@200wpm)___ 151(@250wpm)___ 125(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 37645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 188(@200wpm)___ 151(@250wpm)___ 125(@300wpm)
The little asshole has been hitting the bottle pretty hard and making a nuisance of himself. A first we thought he’d get tired of the game and give up but so far he isn’t going away.
“You want some coffee?” I offer, standing at the counter and trying to channel the world’s best big sister.
She shakes her head, not looking up from the phone. “I’ve already had a cup.” Her voice is small, clipped, and nothing like the bratty little sister who used to sing along with pop music at full volume. I instantly know something really bad is happening here.
I’m pouring my cup of black gold when the world shatters.
There’s a heavy, insistent pounding on the front door that makes my heart do a backflip into my stomach. Casey goes white as a sheet and I instantly know it’s Stellan.
Casey goes rigid. Her fork clatters onto the table, egg forgotten. She looks at me with the wild, desperate eyes of a cornered animal. “Don’t open it,” she says. “Please. He’s acting nuts.”
I shake my head. “I’m not an idiot.” But I am an older sister, and there’s no way in hell I’m letting him scare us in our own home. I move to the hallway, careful to keep my body between Casey and the door.
The pounding comes again, louder, more frantic. “Casey!” he yells, his voice muffled through the door but still sharp enough to spike my blood pressure. “I just want to talk! Let me in!”
There’s a crash upstairs, and my mom’s bedroom door flies open. She’s out in the hall before I can blink, robe half-tied, eyes already narrowed to weaponized slits.
“Stay in the kitchen,” she snaps at Casey. “Naomi, get my phone.” She doesn’t slow down; she walks straight up to the door and stands there, every inch the warrior mom, refusing to flinch.
I grab her phone off the counter with shaking hands, dial 911, and speak in a voice I barely recognize. “There’s a man at our door. Stellan Mintz. He’s harassing my sister.” I rattle off the address from muscle memory.
The operator asks if he’s violent. I hesitate, then say, “I’m not sure.”
Outside, Stellan’s still shouting. “I know you’re in there! Just open up! Casey, come out! We need to talk!” He sounds more unhinged than ever, the words slurring together in a way that makes my skin crawl.
My mom glances at me as she screams through the door. “You’re not welcome here, Stellan. Go home.”
The handle jiggles as he tries to force the door. My mother grabs a chair from the dining room and shoves it under the door handle just in case.
I glance out the rectangular window on the side of the door and get a look at him through the frosted glass. My stomach clenches when I see his hair sticking up on end. He’s got dark circles around his bloodshot eyes. There’s something wild and glassy about his stare, the kind of look you see on mugshots or the evening news.
“Casey! Casey, please! I just want to talk!” He starts banging his head against the door, or maybe just leaning into it with his entire body, but the sound is sickening.
“Go away, I already called the cops!” I shout through the wood.
He laughs. It’s the worst sound I’ve ever heard, cracked and desperate. “You think the sheriff is going to protect you? He’s a joke!”
“Stay away from my daughter,” my mother’s voice is calm, but I can hear the terror underneath.
There’s a moment where the pounding stops. I hold my breath, waiting for the next attack.
Then a shadow moves past the window, and I realize Stellan’s circling the house. He’s going to the back door, the one we never lock because Silver Spoon Falls isn’t supposed to be like this. I sprint through the living room, Casey behind me, and throw the bolt just as his fist hits the glass. The impact rattles the frame, and for a second I think the whole thing’s coming off the hinges.
I hear a siren in the distance, the slow, deliberate wail of a small-town cop car. Stellan hears it, too. He starts to back away, but not before he catches my eye through the glass. He grins, lips pulled back in a snarl.
“This isn’t over, Casey!” he howls, loud enough for the neighbors to hear. “I’ll find you! You can’t hide forever!”
He turns and books it through our backyard with his boots slipping on the dew-wet grass.
The police cruiser screeches to a halt in front of the house. Sheriff Armstrong gets out, face set in stone. He’s a big man, but today he looks tired, like he’s already had enough bullshit for one lifetime. He comes up the walk, radio in one hand, the other resting on his hip.
“Everyone all right?” he asks, scanning us one by one.