Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 131455 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131455 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
“I think it's a great idea. He won't be looking for anything from Sebastian.” As far as I know, Costello is unaware of our dealings. “Yes, we'll reach out to him. He seemed eager enough to be of help when Bianca was missing.”
“Not that he was accommodating in the end,” he retorts, a little sour.
“As it turns out, we didn't need him to be. We had everything we needed. It was only a matter of time before we put the pieces together.” Too much time. Time Bianca should have been with me, not trapped in some stinking hellhole. Yes, it could have been worse, but she didn't deserve to experience a moment of what she did.
“I'll reach out to him and set up a time for a meeting.” I don't bother trying to hide the way I look him up and down. “As for you, why don't you go home, get some rest in your own bed, and get your head on straight. We'll dive back into this tomorrow.”
“But—”
Ultimately, there's no option but to let him see my frustration. I've been trying to hide it, reminding myself how difficult it's been for him, how little sleep he's gotten, and how he's beaten himself up more than once. First, it was blaming himself for leaving Tatum unprotected, and now he blames himself for my getting shot. I can't have him falling apart, not when I rely so heavily on him.
“No buts,” I snarl. “That was a fucking order. Go to bed. Get some sleep. You'll be able to think better in the morning. You're no use to me as you are now.”
His jaw clenches, though he's smart enough to keep his thoughts to himself before stalking from the room, jamming his fists into his pockets. His footsteps echo like gunshots down the hall until they fade to silence with the closing of the front door.
Slowly, I rise from my chair, groaning as I do. I consider going upstairs to the bedroom, but instead, my feet lead me to the door separating the main house from Tatum's wing. It's closed—not unusual—but I have to ask myself whether or not to open it. I can't shake the feeling that somewhere deep down inside, Tatum blames me for all of this. It could very well be my guilt manifesting itself in projection, and at the end of the day, it was her mother who set this up, not me, but we don't think rationally when we are in a crisis, and what she's going through qualifies as that. I grip the door handle and twist the knob opening the door, only to find Bianca on her way out of Tatum's bedroom. The way she moves—tiptoeing, holding a finger to her lips when she spots me—tells me Tatum must be asleep.
She confirms this in a whisper once she draws closer. “She went straight to bed. I know how she feels. It's impossible to get a good night's sleep in a hospital.”
“Then let's get you to bed, too.” I have to laugh at the raised brow of suspicion she gives me. “I'm grateful for your confidence in my abilities, but that's the last thing on my mind for once.”
She frowns, “You must really be in bad shape, then.”
“Not in bad shape. Just extremely sore and not in the mood to tear my stitches.”
“I don't want that, either.” She slides an arm around my waist, her touch gentle, careful, and I drape an arm across her shoulders. There is something incredibly right about this, the two of us ambling toward the stairs, together. When I think of how close I came to never having this again… It's a pain intense enough to eclipse anything I've experienced until now.
As we walk, Bianca speaks again, “Would it be rude of me to offer an opinion on Tatum?”
“You know her better than I do,” I point out with no small amount of anger that I try hard to cover. It isn't her fault my daughter doesn't want to talk to me.
“I think it might be a good idea to bring a therapist here, to the house. This way, she can't shut down the idea. Tatum's in a dark place.” She sighs heavily, almost despairing, her head touching my shoulder. “I hate seeing her like this. It's such a helpless feeling knowing the only person who can bring her out of this is herself.”
“And what about you?” We reach the landing and turn toward the bedroom.
“Honestly, I'm okay. I really am.” Bianca does her best to assure me. However, I wouldn't be surprised if she was lying to save making me feel guilty. As we enter the bedroom, I spot the bag of supplies the hospital provided: gauze, tape, and alcohol wipes. One of the men must've brought it up here.
“Do you need help with this?” she asks, lifting the bag from the nightstand.