Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86857 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86857 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
“Why the hell did you turn off your location?”
I shut off the water and pivot toward Colten. Eyeing him without a reply, I retrieve my towel and dry my body.
“Are you going to answer me? Did you see my text? I had to pick up Reagan and take her to work with me and have someone watch her while I interrogated a suspect.”
I wrap my towel around my body. “She’s not my responsibility. Sorry.”
“Yes, I realize that. I thought we were getting married, and you knew she was part of the deal. You picked her up the week after Thanksgiving.”
“And you’re welcome, but as a rule, I’d say … don’t count on me for … anything.” I step out of the shower and rub the hand towel over the steamy mirror.
“What’s wrong?”
I drop my head and stare at the sink. “I lost my job.”
“You what?”
“I SAID—”
Colten cups his hand over my mouth. “Reagan is sitting on the sofa in your living room, just down the hallway.”
I jerk my head away from his hold and take a seat on the toilet, pressing a hand to my head and fisting what little hair I can. “Go home. Take your daughter home. I just …” My hand drops to my leg. “I need space. If I’m truly losing my fucking mind, I don’t want to do it in front of Reagan.”
Colten hunches in front of me, resting his hands on my legs. He looks like he’s had a long day too. His hair is nearly as messy as mine. Tie loose and crooked. Tired eyes. “Why were you fired?”
Any other man would leave. They’d either give me the middle finger and find someone less messed-up … or they’d stick their tail between their legs and skitter off. Sometimes I wish Colten would be that man. Instead, he ignores all boundaries and climbs all the walls I build. We have too much history. He helped write the book on Josephine Watts.
“I told Cornwell.”
“Told him what?”
“Everything.”
“Why?”
“Because I needed to tell someone.”
“You have me.”
I shake my head. “It’s not the same. You’ve said it yourself. You’re hardwired to love me. So are my parents. My therapist is trained to…” I shrug “…I don’t even know. Alicia is my friend. But Cornwell has always pushed me. He’s been a mentor. He has a lot of insight and years of experience. I feel like he’s probably heard everything by this point in his career and his life in general. I thought he’d give me perspective in a way that no one else has been able to do.”
Colten bows his head and mumbles, “But he didn’t.”
“No. He did. He not so gently reminded me that if this were happening to anyone else and I were an outsider looking in, I’d think that person was crazy. He didn’t say those words, but that’s what I took from it. And he’s not wrong. He said to get help or clean out my desk.”
“And what did you do?”
“No one can help me. So I cleaned out my …” I haven’t cried since I left work. I’ve been too angry. But now … I’m just incredibly sad and hopeless. So with a blink, my tears break free. “I c-cleaned out my d-desk,” I whisper past the lump in my throat.
Being a medical examiner is my life. It’s the reason I’ve been single with no kids. I know my love for the man before me is indescribable, but he can’t be my job. It’s not a void that a person can fill. Losing my job—and my mind—feels like my soul has been stripped and is no longer recognizable. I don’t recognize my reflection in the mirror.
I’ve lost my identity, and I don’t know if I will ever find it again.
Colten catches my tears. He’s caught so many tears, he could have his own personal Josephine Watts Ocean. “We’ve got this.”
Damn you, Colten …
We. Ride or die.
Only, he can’t die. He has a beautiful little girl. And I know he loves her more than he has loved anyone, including me. And that makes me love him even more. It also makes me hate myself for allowing him back into my life. Maybe seventeen years ago he had it right. We should have ended our story on a sad note—on a moonlight sonata. I fear all that’s left of our story is a tragic ending. I can’t slow it down. I can’t change its course. I think the ending has already been written. It was written the day I came into this world as Josephine Watts, another innocent victim of Winston Jeffries’ wrath.
“Take Reagan home,” I say, just above a whisper.
He rests his forehead against mine, easing it side to side. “I can’t. I won’t leave you. The night I fell down the stairs at that party, you got me home. You stayed with me because you wanted to make sure I was okay. That I wasn’t going to …”