Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 100332 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 401(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100332 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 401(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
“Your vigilance is lacking,” Matteo said to Isa as he approached her and pressed a kiss to her temple. She made a face. “Oh please, guards are everywhere.”
Her eyes moved past her father to me. She didn’t smile, for which I was oddly grateful. I didn’t really feel like pretend smiling either. Her glasses were propped up on top of her head, hugging the messy bun in which her maroon hair was put up. She reminded me a lot of my aunt Gianna.
“I’ll sit here while you chat,” Dad said as he sank down on one of the chairs in the small waiting area.
“I’ll take over the reception,” Matteo said.
The gym area with the machines was on the left, and several women working out there kept throwing curious looks our way.
“This is a women’s gym. Our customers won’t feel comfortable if men are everywhere,” Isa said.
Matteo sank down on the chair behind the counter and propped up his feet on a second chair. “They’ll be fine.”
“Mom won’t be happy,” Isa said with a small shrug as she motioned me toward her. Everyone’s eyes seemed to be on me by now. I cringed and followed Isa into the office.
She still carried the book that she’d been reading. She pointed at the plush sofa. “Get comfy.” Then she walked toward an old-fashioned coffee maker where everything still had to be done by hand. “Espresso?”
I shook my head and plopped down on the sofa, sinking into the soft cushions. “Too strong for me. I prefer tea.”
“I live off caffeine. I’m trying to channel my inner Stephen King without resorting to taking heroin or booze.” She prepared an espresso. The rattling and whizzing of the machine filled the room, and I decided I quite liked the sound. Isa was focused on preparing her espresso, so I got the chance to watch her closely.
Her own kidnapping had been three months ago after Amo’s wedding. From what I knew, neither she nor her mother had been hurt seriously during the incident, but I still noticed changes in Isa whenever I saw her. She was even more serious and withdrawn than before, always immersed in a book or scribbling on a notepad.
She headed over to me with her espresso cup and a bottle of water. I realized she wasn’t wearing shoes, only oversized wool socks she’d pulled up to her knees. One was pink, the other purple, and the only dash of color in her otherwise black outfit of leggings, pinafore dress, and turtleneck shirt. She held out the water bottle. I took it but didn’t drink. Isa sank down beside me and took a sip from her espresso. “Did you know Stephen King wrote The Shining while under the influence of alcohol and heroin? And he doesn’t even remember writing Cujo.”
“I hope you’re not thinking about trying the same,” I said. “But considering the disturbing nature of many of his books, I’m not surprised.” Not that I had read many of them. I didn’t have the stomach for them, and now that my own life had been touched by darkness in this life-altering way even less.
Isa made a shocked face. “Disturbing but genius. And if you don’t like disturbing books, you shouldn’t read mine.”
“You wrote a book?”
Isa flushed and took another sip from her espresso, which meant the cup was already empty. I never understood the need for an espresso. I liked drinks that lasted. Nothing was better than hugging a big mug of tea in my palms and feeling it slowly grow colder as I inhaled the comforting scent. “I’m mostly working on short stories and novellas, but I’m also working on a book, yes.”
“Wow.” I searched her face. “Do you use it to work through what happened?”
Isa put down the tiny cup and leaned back against the armrest, pulling one of her legs against her chest. She looked straight into my eyes. I could tell she was weighing how much to share. I doubted she was someone who talked about things that bothered her with many people, if at all.
“My writing has become more jaded and darker. It’s also gotten better. I read somewhere that great writers are born from trauma. Not sure it’s true, but writing has definitely become an outlet.”
She blew a few strands of her maroon hair out of her face. Her messy bun barely contained her wild mane anymore. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I was torn. I had come here to talk to Isa, but I was also terrified of how putting my fears into words would make them more real. Last night’s nightmare about our capturer’s leering face had shaken me up. “I’m worried about how yesterday will shape me and the future. I don’t want one bad thing to determine everything else. I don’t want to give them the power. But some things are out of my control, and it really scares me.”