Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 122097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
We pass one of the larger buildings. It’s made of logs. Everything is made of logs. And pressed against the nearly dozen windows lining the front of this building are the faces of children. They are watching Ike take me through the village.
It’s weird, the way they watch me. Like they’ve never seen a stranger in their lives.
Maybe they haven’t? Maybe they never leave this little place?
Last time I was up here I saw cars and trucks. Signs all over that there were ways leading up here that went beyond that horse trail.
But this time, there is none of that. No signs of any kind of transportation except for horses and, oddly enough, something that might be a helicopter pad. A wide-open space with a smooth blacktop square on the other side of the village—right in front of us actually, because we’re walkin’ that way. And I guess it makes sense. Not only is it not safe to live so isolated—there has to be some kind of emergency way in or out—but if they are military, helicopters would be the easiest way to come and go.
So maybe it’s true? Maybe they are so isolated up here that I am a novelty to these children?
There are some old folks too. Mostly sitting on porches in small groups, but some are looking out the windows as well. They don’t look at me with curiosity though. They look at me with… I dunno. Contempt, maybe.
Finally, after what seems like an eternal walk of shame, we arrive at a porch. Ike practically drags me up the steps, opens the door, and pushes me inside ahead of him.
I want to object to his manhandling, but the interior of this space has redirected my attention. It’s… nice. And… homey. And… normal. And so far, this trip has been anything but normal, so I’m not sure what to do with this change of perspective.
It’s all very new. And country. Kind of like the way I designed my bedroom, only more masculine. All done up in black and gray. There’s a nice wide-plank wood floor, and cotton-rope rugs, and a fireplace with a huge raw-edge tree trunk as a mantel and a river-stone chimney climbing up the wall, all the way to the ceiling.
I turn and face Ike. “What is this place?”
He huffs. “My home? Where else would I bring you?”
I don’t have an answer for that. Just more questions.
“You can snoop all you want in this one.” He smirks at me again. “Not gonna find any secrets here, Low.”
I’m just about to ask him what the hell that means when he turns and leaves. Closing the door behind him.
Then I hear the click of a lock.
He locked me in!
I could rush over to the door and make a scene. Pound on it for a while. Scream. Kick it. Break a window.
But I have a feeling that Ike Monroe would not respond well to a temper tantrum. And there’s no point, anyway. I’m here until he has his words with Collin. So I sigh, walk over to the couch, and sit down. Just running this day back through my head so I can make some sense of it.
I just don’t understand why Collin would decide, right out of the blue, to send Mercy on a trackin’ job up the hill out back of the house.
It makes no sense to me.
I skip ahead to the next mystery, which might actually be solved. If Ike is telling the truth and Olive wasn’t Collin’s real sister—I’m not sure how that could be, but just for the sake of argument, let’s say it’s true—well, that kind of explains a lot. Why that man was there in the first place. Why he put his hands up so readily. Why everyone wanted to make it go away after Collin killed him.
Why Mr. and Mrs. Creed wanted to move away, and… why Ike Monroe thinks Collin Creed owes him something.
I sit there on the couch for a while, not really sure how much time passes. But eventually I get hungry and there is a very nice modern kitchen on the other side of the room. Since Ike practically gave me permission to snoop—Not gonna find any secrets here, Low—I figure I’m allowed to help myself to some food.
So I get up and walk in there, but just as I’m reaching for the refrigerator door, I spy a photo album on the kitchen table.
For some reason I look over my shoulder. Who am I kidding? I know the reason. He’s probably got cameras in here, too.
But curiosity gets the better of me. A photo album is a treasure trove of information. I’ve picked my share of vintage photo albums so I know that images, even without a running commentary—though lots of them do have that—are a very good way to understand people.