Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 88215 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88215 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
After a few hours, my phone vibrates on my lap. The alarm. I’m proud of myself this time for not leaping in response. I turn everything off and head back upstairs. It’s time to at least try and get some sleep. After all, I have school in the morning.
I sigh.
I might be a liar, but what I told Duke earlier is the truth. I don’t like high school all that much.
Not now, and not when I graduated the first time.
Four years ago.
Chapter Four
Every morning, or afternoon, or whenever I wake the fuck up, the first thing I think about is the night my life went from being all about my work to being all about revenge.
Ain’t no doubt in my mind that when my time comes and I’m delivered to Hell, the memory of finding Morgan dead in her house will be the one I’ll relive over and over again on a never-ending loop.
Then again, maybe I’m already in hell.
That night changed me. Made me harder. Crueler. More unfeeling than ever.
Except anger. That I feel just fucking fine.
The blast of a car horn brings me back from the past. I’m grateful for the distraction until I glance in my rearview mirror at the little shit throwing his hands in the air like I’m somehow blocking him when I’m parked next to the curb and there isn’t a single other car on the fucking road.
I hold my favorite finger out the window of the van. I ain’t going nowhere.
The little shit shakes his head and maneuvers his little Mazda, turning the wheel hand-over-hand like he’s driving a fucking big rig.
He pulls up beside me, blocking my view of the townhouse I’ve been watching for weeks, and rolls down his passenger window. He’s yelling, but I don’t hear his words ‘cause I’m not fucking listening.
The fucker’s gotta go.
I hold up my hand like I’m about to apologize but grab my gun from the console instead and prop it up against my open window.
I smirk.
That does the trick. One look is all it takes for the fucker to slam on the gas pedal, his little roller skate screeching against the pavement as he takes off.
I return my gun to the console and lean over, popping open the glove box. I feel around until I find what I’m looking for. I sit up, open the bottle, and toss back two pills, swallowing them down with a swig of whiskey from my flask.
Adderall.
It’s needed, especially today. Watching this house for weeks isn’t good for a mind that tends to go searching in the past when it isn’t concentrating on the present. The Adderall helps me focus when I got too much time to think. Plus, it’s a better high than coke and lasts a fuck of a lot longer.
The only thing keeping me here, in this van on the side of a nameless road in Banyan Cay, besides the steady diet of whiskey and amphetamines, of course, is revenge.
Frank Helburn is going to die by my hand.
As soon as I can fucking find him.
I’ve never spent a year looking for someone. Finding people, tracking, is what I’m paid a shit-ton of money to do. I can usually trace someone in hours, days at most.
Never an entire fucking year.
I may not have found Frank, but I’ve found the next best thing.
His daughter.
Frances Helburn, named after her sorry fuck of a father, Frank, is now going by Sarah Jackson.
She has a miserable excuse for a life. Seriously, the bitch barely leaves the house. From what I can see she doesn’t have any friends, except of course for the curly haired motherfucker who barely looks old enough to shave. Although, Frances could be hiding a beard of her own for all I fucking know with that hair always in her face. I’m surprised she makes it to school every day without getting hit by a fucking car.
She spotted me across the street today. I felt her eyes on me. I pretended to be repairing something on my bike, when, in reality, I’d just ran from her house after breaking into the basement. I didn’t make it one foot inside the little window before I was clawed at by some fat feline who jumped past me in the dark, knocking a bunch of shit over.
Fuck that cat.
I didn’t have time to search for clues to where Frank could be hiding. Patience isn’t my strong suit. Finding Frank Helburn is testing my very limits. I was growing restless again. I remind myself of the goal and how sweet spilling his blood will be.
And, for a moment or two, I’m at ease.
Well, at ease as I can be.
I crack my knuckles and then my neck. I pull out my phone and click on the file Griff sent me a few weeks back. There are only two pictures in the file and one is of Frank and his daughter. The picture itself is several years old at best and blurry as all hell. Frances has no discernable deformities from what I can tell, but again, the picture is so distorted I can’t even make out if she’s smiling or not. Just dark hair and weird yellow-gold colored eyes, which must be another testament to the quality of the picture.