Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 122242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
"Octavio," he corrects in a deep growl.
"He's old and grumpy and never called me by my name, but when…when they started shooting, he protected me," I whisper. "He hid me in the corner and used his body to shield mine."
Octavio's gaze softens again. "I'll make sure he's taken care of," he promises.
"Thank you."
"Faith…" He doesn't say whatever he was going to say. Before he can, the front door opens. Agent Gunner and Agent Sanders come back inside, loaded down with takeout bags and cups. Detective Hernandez sighs and then climbs to his feet, putting space between us as he greets them.
Agent Gunner offers him tacos, which he declines, saying he needs to get back to work.
"I'll be back to check on you tomorrow," he mutters to me.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
A few moments later, the front door creaks open and then slams closed. I keep my gaze on the floor until I hear an engine roar to life outside.
When I finally look up, Agent Sanders is staring at me, his eyes narrowed. "We brought you tacos," he says, his expression dropping into a friendly mask. Most people probably think he's handsome with his blond hair, blue eyes, and perfect smile. He isn't. He looks cold and dangerous to me. When he smiles at me, it never reflects in his icy eyes.
"Thanks, but I'm not hungry," I mutter and clamber to my feet. I scoop up the shopping bags, biting back a grimace when the healing cuts on my hands send pain shooting up my arms.
Agent Sanders walks toward me.
I quickly grab the rest of the bags and sidestep him, hurrying down the hall to my room.
By the time I work up the nerve to leave the safety of my room in search of food, it's after three in the morning. The house is completely silent.
I sneak out into the hall, moving as quietly as possible to keep from disturbing Agent Gunner and Agent Sanders. Except for a lamp in the living room, the rest of the house is dark.
I exhale a relieved breath once I make it to the kitchen without running into Gunner or Sanders. One of them is usually camped out on the couch like they think I might try to sneak out if they leave the front door unguarded, but the living room is empty tonight. Thank God. I don't want to talk to either of them.
I just want to eat and go back to my room.
Ever since Detective Hernandez left, I've felt out of sorts and restless. Talking about my mom brought up a lot of old memories, things I prefer not to think about. I'll never understand why she hated me or how she could just abandon me like she did. I thought I'd come to terms with it a long time ago, but I guess not. It still hurts even though it shouldn't. I still love her even though I shouldn't.
Once the leftover tacos are warm, I stand in front of the sink to eat them, staring out into the backyard. A floodlight illuminates most of the overgrown, sad-looking space. There's a tire swing hanging in the tree, but the rope is frayed and rotted. The tire itself is cracked, with weeds growing in the rim of it. I don't think anyone has lived here for a long time. I don't know if the ATF uses it as a safe house a lot or if this is the first time. The house is old, with fading and chipped paint. From the outside, it honestly looks abandoned.
I guess that's the point though. No one would think to search for me in a house that appears as if a good wind might blow it over. Inside is nicer than it is outside. The furniture is threadbare and old, but comfortable. There are even paintings on the wall and rugs on the floor. All the windows in front are blacked out so no one can see inside. They all have bars over them too.
The front door creaks open as I finish my taco. I grimace and pick up the second, trying to eat it as quickly as possible so I can get back to my room. I don't want to deal with Agent Sanders right now. Agent Gunner is nice to me, but I'm not particularly comfortable around him either. He seems to know it because he tends to keep his distance.
My heart thumps painfully when Agent Sanders steps into the kitchen.
"Faith." His gaze runs up and down my body, leaving me feeling cold. "You changed out of your scrubs."
"Octavio brought me clothes," I mutter, shrugging. Wearing the same clothes every day was getting old. I had to get up early every morning to wash them while Agent Gunner was outside exercising and Agent Sanders was sleeping. The stuff Detective Hernandez brought me is nice. The pajama pants are fuzzy and warm, and the tank top is cute.