Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
A few moments later, a strange pop startles me. I sit up quickly, splashing water out of the tub, but before I have a chance to even switch off the water, my phone rings. I turn the tap off and reach for it, but it’s on the counter and I can’t. By the time I step out of the tub, the call has gone to voicemail. I dry my hands, dripping water on the bathmat and swipe to see who called when it starts to ring again. It’s Silas.
I answer. “Hey.”
“Where are you? Where’s Hamish?” He sounds panicked.
“What? Why?”
“Just where is Hamish?” he barks.
“Downstairs, I guess. I’m in the bath.”
He sighs with relief. “Shit.”
“Silas, what is it?”
“I’m on my way back. I just—There’s Hamish calling now. Let me take it. Have your bath.”
He disconnects before I can answer and I set it down, irritated and cold. I switch off the phone, no longer wanting a bath, not remotely relaxed. I reach for a towel when I hear the bedroom door open.
Surely, he’s not back already? I open the door ready to give Silas a piece of my mind but stop dead when I see it’s not him. It’s not Silas at all.
34
SILAS
“Hamish! Why didn’t you answer?” I bark into the phone, driving like a mad man back to Boston, back to the brownstone. At least I got hold of Ophelia. She’s fine. Ethan is at the funeral. He doesn’t know she’s at the brownstone.
A text comes through from Nigella. I glance at the phone in its cradle on the dash and read it while passing a car.
Nigella: Got hold of Wells. They’re going to pick up Ethan.
“Hamish?” I say, realizing he hasn’t answered.
There’s a strange sound, a gurgling. And in the background, a thud.
“Hamish?” I press my foot to the accelerator. “What the fuck is going on?”
I barely get the sentence out when I hear Ophelia’s voice caught between a gasp and a scream before the line goes dead.
I race to the brownstone, but I’m at least twenty minutes out. I dial 911 and tell them to get to the house, yelling at the operator when she asks questions that don’t matter. When I’m sure they’re on their way, I begin to dial Ophelia and Hamish in turn, but my calls go to voicemail over and over again.
By the time I make it to the brownstone, I see the lights of police cars outside, and an officer stops me from entering the street.
“That’s my house. I called 911!”
He says something, but I don’t hear him. I put the SUV into park and open the door to run the rest of the way but my phone pings with a message. I stop because it’s from Ophelia.
Dread twists my gut. My hand trembles as I reach to swipe, to open the message.
And I read the single line of text.
Can she swim yet, bro?
Ethan. Ethan has her.
My heart pounds against my chest wall, blood deafening me. I push a hand into my hair, thinking what to do when three dots appear, indicating he’s typing.
We’ll finish this where it started.
35
OPHELIA
“Ethan.” My voice catches in my throat.
Ethan is standing in the bedroom. He’s in the dark slacks and shirt he’d worn to the funeral, but his suit jacket is gone. His tie is loose around his neck and his hair is wet with melted snow. He stops when he sees me, almost like he’s surprised at least for a moment.
“There you are,” he says casually, blinking, stepping into the bedroom like he’s just come home.
“Ethan. What are you doing here?” I clutch the towel to myself.
“I needed to show you something.” His gaze drifts to my chest, to the towel I’m holding on to, like he just noticed I’m not dressed.
“How did you get up here? How did you know where—”
“You need to see this.” He comes into the room.
“Let me get dressed. I’ll be right there, wait outside.”
“No.” He looks around, tosses the first thing he sees at me. It’s a sweater and a pair of jeans I’d left draped over the back of a chair. “Put these on. We need to go.”
“Wait outside.”
“I fucking said no!”
I jump when he takes out what he had tucked into the waistband of his slacks, which have grown looser around his waist. It’s a gun.
“Get dressed.”
My throat goes dry, and I remember that strange pop I’d heard. “Okay,” I say, picking up the sweater with one hand and trying to pull it on.
“Fuck’s sake, you’d think I’d never seen you naked!” he snaps, crossing the room in three quick strides and tugging the towel from me.
I scream, then drop onto the bed because I’m out of space. When he pushes the sweater down over my head, I feel the cool steel of the gun against my cheek. I look up at him and slide my arms through, then pick up the jeans. He steps backward.