Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Junie.
I’m almost certain she’s gone now.
After I’m patched up and done wasting a few hours in the ER, I’ll go home to an empty house.
It’ll be just like before I met her—only then I didn’t mind the hollowness at home.
I thought it was normal.
Bleeding a few pints out sure puts things in perspective.
I don’t want her to leave.
I don’t want this stupid pretense to be over even though it’s null and void. I don’t want to face a life without her.
Because I love her.
And she doesn’t have a clue, not after I barked shit in her face and ripped her apart.
Maybe that’s why this doesn’t feel like a win, but more like a chore that’s finally done.
I slump against the wall and close my eyes, my thoughts fading.
As soon as I’m done bleeding, I need to talk to her.
I need to tell Junie everything before it’s too late.
27
BITTERSWEET TEARS (JUNIPER)
The first hint I have that there’s something terribly wrong is when two police officers show up at Nana’s door.
Two of them in matching uniforms, both wearing identical expressions of polite concern. Nana invites them in and plies them with cake as they explain they need to ask me some very important questions about my involvement with Forrest Haute.
It’s been two days since I came back here crying like a stray cat.
To say I’m over it is pure exaggeration, but at least I’m not bawling my eyes out uncontrollably anymore.
“Sure,” I tell them, wondering if I’m a suspect myself. After all, I was there in the laundromat, clearly sleuthing and potentially incriminating myself. Haute’s dirty number notes were stuffed in my cupcakes.
Dexter made the risks clear, even if he never said anything about winding up on the police’s radar.
But thinking about him makes my heart squeeze, so I focus on my expression.
That’s something I’ve been practicing. The dead smile where I crinkle the corners of my eyes to make it look real.
“Do you need me to come down to the station?” I ask.
The older officer, a lady with dark hair who introduced herself as Detective Gillian Batista, gives me a brief smile. She’s all hard edges and scares me a little, but I decide I like her.
“We can talk to you here,” she says. “You’re not under arrest or anything.”
“Oh. Oh, thank God.” The relief is palpable. I link my fingers together as Nana drops off more coffee.
“We’ve already spoken to Dexter Rory about the case and your involvement,” Detective Batista continues, “so this is more of a formality. We need as much information as possible to build a case.”
They’ve already talked to Dex.
Of course they have.
I tighten my fingers so they don’t shake. I saw the headline last night when it popped up in my local news feed.
Big headlines about a major real estate mogul and developer getting busted. All thanks to Dexter Rory.
No mention of the Sugar Bowl.
No mention of me.
“You’ve spoken to him,” I repeat. “And how is he?”
The article said he was hurt in a confrontation with Haute, but I called the hospital only to find out he was discharged. I don’t know anything else and it’s driving me insane.
“He’s absolutely fine.” The younger cop leans forward. He looks about my age, maybe slightly older, with mousy hair and toned muscles. His eyes are kind, though. “I believe he needed stitches in his arm, but he’s all good now.”
“Stitches?” There’s no hiding my horrified gasp.
Detective Batista sends her colleague an annoyed glance. “I know it sounds bad, Miss Winkley, but you have my word he’s in good shape.”
Right.
And that’s all I’m going to get because I don’t have a right to his life anymore.
I left the ring back at his house. For all I know, it’s in the trash by now.
He said I could keep it, but I couldn’t bear to.
Not after—well, everything.
“Is it all right if we ask a few follow-up questions?” Batista asks.
“Of course.”
“How did you know Forrest Haute?”
I walk them through my interactions, focusing on the meeting at the clubhouse and the deal he brokered there. I hardly mention Dex, even though he’s probably given them every detail.
I don’t know what to say about the whole fake engagement thing.
Our contract. Our illusion. Our marvelously stupid mistake.
The detective’s gaze is sympathetic as it lingers on my face for a second too long.
Oof.
I probably should have cleaned up better this morning. At least splashed cold water on my face and put makeup over the dark circles around my eyes.
I look about as good as I feel, too.
Godawful.
“And what were the terms of the contract you arranged with Mr. Haute?” she asks.
“I have a copy of it on my laptop, I think. Hang on.” Desperate to get out of the room with the cops and her all-knowing eyes, I leap up and run upstairs.
As soon as I’m in my room, I stop, standing in the middle of the floor.