Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 96957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
Livy: Are you ignoring me on purpose?
Then I sent a photo of me in his bed, wearing only his UCLA tee, my bare legs bent and spread—sexy but tasteful since the lighting didn’t allow the full view between my legs.
I waited and waited for a response. Nothing.
Feeling thirsty and craving something sweet, I sauntered downstairs for a can of natural black cherry soda that he stocked in the fridge just for me. I slid my phone onto the table and took a seat while I popped the top to the soda.
“Shit!” The soda exploded like I’d shaken the hell out of it, but I hadn’t. The dark liquid ran in a fizzy river from the table to the light-colored area rug under the table. “Nooo …” I grabbed the roll of paper towels and threw a wad onto the table to stop the flow before blotting the ugly stain on his rug.
I couldn’t imagine it being an expensive rug, but I didn’t know because I didn’t know much about his financial situation or the price tag on his possessions, which were sparse.
When I tried to clean it with a product I found under the sink, the stain just got worse.
“Nooo …” Plopping back onto my butt, I rested my elbows onto my knees and hung my head. Either I needed to buy a new rug, or I needed to send it off to be cleaned. Aubrey’s parents had a company that picked up area rugs, cleaned them, and returned them to the house.
With lazy defeat settling into my bones, I climbed to my feet, finished cleaning the table, and moved the table and chairs to roll up the rug. A foot into rolling it up, I froze. A chill worked its way up my spine. There it was.
The access to Professor Dickerson’s creepy dungeon. So much for the rumors that they filled it in when the house was restored. Ever so slowly, I continued rolling up the rug. With Slade, the house never felt haunted. Without him … I swear I heard every tiny creak and crack. I smelled smoke from the original fire. And the temperature seemed to drop ten degrees.
The details of the kidnapping, the fire, the college girl being burned alive … it all came to life in my head. The bigger question that haunted me was … did Slade have anything stored in the dungeon? Surely not. At least that was my hope.
Potatoes. Dungeons were like cellars, right? Apples, potatoes, lots of fruits and veggies that liked it cool. Wine. It would have been the perfect wine cellar. If only I could have remembered Slade ever drinking a glass of wine.
Nothing.
That was what I was really hoping to find. It took me a good half hour of just staring at the wood plank trapdoor to get the nerve to lift it open. Had my girlfriends been home, I would have told them to come over and open it with me.
They weren’t home.
So I had to brave it on my own. It didn’t lift easily. The weight of it strained my shoulders as I used my whole body to pull it open. A musty smell wafted out of the black hole along with yet another drop in temperature. I couldn’t see anything, so I grabbed my phone and turned on the flashlight, pointing it into the hole. The only thing that came into view was a ladder to climb into the dungeon and the dirty concrete floor below.
I blew out a long breath as my hand holding my phone shook a bit.
“I can’t go down there,” I whispered to myself and the ghosts watching over me. “But I have to.” In nothing but his UCLA tee, I descended the ladder with my phone clenched in my mouth, the light pointed downward. My focus was on my feet, making sure I didn’t miss one of the rungs and fall. Once I reached the floor, I grabbed my phone and aimed the light at the wall.
“Oh … my … god …”
Fear came in waves. The first wave took my breath away. The second wave hit my heart, jolting it into a frantic rhythm. The third wave paralyzed me. I just … stood there, trying to make sense of the display before me. Forcing myself to move, I turned in a slow circle, taking the light with me, trembling to the point I thought my teeth might start chattering. Every square foot of the wall was covered in hooks and shelves of weapons. An arsenal like I’d only seen in the movies.
Knives.
Guns.
Grenades.
Some missile-looking things that I couldn’t imagine were legal for anyone to own except the military.
I no longer thought the rumors were wrong. They were understated. Slade Wylder wasn’t just a drug dealer; he was bigger. Mafia? I didn’t know. What I did know … Slade wasn’t a good person. He was dangerous. And I needed to tell someone. Call the police.