Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
“Not over the phone.” She doesn’t sound right. Something is off. “Just come. Right away.”
My stomach knots. “Mom—”
“Victoria.” Even the way she says my name is different. It sounds flat and broken. I open my mouth to say more, but before I can, the line is dead.
She hung up without giving me an explanation or even clarity.
I stare at the screen for three seconds, then shove my chair back so hard it screams against the wood.
Where are my keys?
Jacket?
I need my purse, too.
Everything is moving too fast in my brain. Endless possibilities of what can be wrong play out in my mind.
I feel like I’m drowning in thoughts of what-ifs. But regardless of what it could be, I’m out the door before my brain finishes the scenarios.
This is bad.
The drive to the estate feels tedious. When I finally arrive, my chest feels so tight it burns.
I hate this place.
Sure, I’ve been here a million times over the years, and yes, I always feel like I’m suffocating when I arrive, but today feels different.
Once the house is in view, I inhale deeply, pushing down the bile that crawls up my throat.
It’s fine.
Everything is fine.
I throw the car in Park, then step out . . . and like every time I come here, I’m bombarded with memories. This time, instead of walking straight inside, my feet betray me, turning left.
Not toward the house, but toward the old boathouse.
In all the times I’ve been here since I left, I never could bring myself to go back there. Too many memories, but now, for some reason, I can’t stop myself. I must be a masochist.
The stone path has tiny cracks now. Time has a way of doing that.
I follow it without thinking, as if it’s muscle memory. As if I’m seventeen again, racing down this same trail.
The roses are wild now.
Untamed and beautiful.
I step past the roses and keep walking until the boathouse comes into view. While it was abandoned for as long as I can remember, it is now completely overgrown and unloved.
For a moment, I almost expect to see him leaning there like he never left. Lounging against the doorframe while pretending to fix something as an excuse to spend time with me.
But the doorway is empty.
I keep moving, cracking open the door.
It feels like I can’t breathe as I step inside. This place holds memories that are now carved into me like scars.
I lower my gaze to the worn floorboards. In my mind, I can still see every moment from that summer.
Every kiss.
Every touch.
Every little glance.
And I still can’t think about it without feeling something collapse behind my ribs.
I force myself to step back.
The need to run back to the main house wraps around me. I’m not here for a past long since forgotten. I’m here for my parents.
I take one last breath and turn, heading toward the main house.
Once inside, everything feels wrong. Especially when I walk into the sitting room and see my mother already there, standing. I freeze in place.
Why does she look so frail?
The better question is, why does she look the way she does? Hair slightly frizzed. Makeup smudged. Sweater slouching and off one shoulder.
Who is this woman?
This is not my mother, or at least, this is not a version of her I’ve ever seen before.
“Took you long enough.” She sighs.
I shouldn’t have come. This is a big mistake. I thought for a second she needed me, but it’s obvious that she has no plans to ask nicely.
“Mom, what’s going on?”
Before she can answer, the sound of a slammed door echoes down the hallway.
Heavy footsteps that sound erratic. Is someone pacing?
Then my father strides into the room, and I don’t recognize him either.
It’s almost like I’m in an altered reality. Because if my mother’s appearance is shocking, his is worse. His tie is crooked, and his shirt is untucked.
Don’t get me started on his hair. It’s a complete mess.
Rounding out the look are bloodshot eyes that are glassy and wild, darting around the room like an addict searching for his next hit.
He doesn’t see me at first. The man is too busy muttering to himself, running his hands through his hair. “Years of work—sabotage—what do they want? Why now?”
“Dad?” I step forward. “Dad.”
He whips around. “Victoria.” His voice is rough like he didn’t sleep. “Do you know what’s happening?”
“No,” I say carefully. “Mom called. What’s going on?”
He lets out a laugh—the brittle, unhinged kind you only see in thriller movies. “What’s going on? Everything is going on!”
My mother squeezes my arm. “He hasn’t slept.”
No surprise there. His hair was a dead giveaway.
My father continues pacing. “Someone is dismantling this company,” he spits. “They’re destroying us.”
I blink. What the hell is he talking about? “Destroying? Dad—”
He slams his fist against the wall, and the sound is so loud, I’m surprised the plaster doesn’t crack. “Someone is intentionally trying to destroy Danforth Steel.”