Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 94686 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94686 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
I got to the bottom of the stairs and drank in the neutral space. There was lots of gray furniture with no color. It was so unfitting for a home in a country that boasted of love, fascinating culture, and even more amazing food.
This has to be a vacation rental.
I paused in the center of the room, which appeared more like a sort of sitting area than a typical living room. A large painting hung above an empty mantel.
Aww. Chase.
A little dark-haired boy stood in front of two adults who had to be his parents. The woman smiled with elegance, practically dripping diamonds. They covered her neck, ears, fingers, and wrists. I was shocked the artist didn’t have problems painting through the glare of those stones. On the other side, somewhat separated from his wife and son, stood what I assumed to be Chase’s father.
Damn.
Chase and his dad were spitting images of each other. I didn’t even think Chase’s mother had him, surely the father carried his son in his belly for the required nine months and birthed Chase himself. I walked over there with my mouth open. Even in this old painting, a little gray peeked out at his dad’s temples. He wore no jewelry, just a stiff black suit that made him look like he had to go to a funeral after the painting. His face bore a frown and furrowed brows.
I don’t know if he’s angry or if that’s just the look he normally wears.
I returned to Chase’s small face. Most kids grinned or made a goofy expression when the cameras came out. Children never took good pictures. Sure there were a few exceptions, but most of the time, we all slowly learned how to turn our lips up just right or slant our heads just so, to give our best look before the camera flashed. Not Chase. He’d already discovered his photo face at this small age. He could’ve been a freaking cereal commercial kid, with those rosy cheeks and bright eyes.
Once I spotted the portrait, all interest in searching out the kitchen ceased. I had to see more baby pictures of Chase, and there would be nothing getting in my way. Chase hid too much. There was no way he would take me on a gallant tour of his past.
A savory scent tried to lure me to the right. That had to be the kitchen. I turned left. The place was bigger than I thought; I’d stopped counting at the fifth room.
Goodness. How big is this place?
More rooms came. Some had neatly made beds. Others revealed gray love seats and bare tables to play cards on or maybe rest a book on as a person read. Either way, the place didn’t possess that lived-in feeling. No one had been here in a long time.
Why not, and does this have to do with the buried body and gun?
At the end of the hallway, two doors stood side by side. Unlike the other rooms, these had doors and seemed closed off to the wandering visitor. A thrill shot through me. There was just nothing like spying on others, at least when feeling justified.
Was I even justified? Well, I did get shot. That’s reasoning enough to do some extra snooping of my own.
I went to the first door. The knob wouldn’t budge. There was a serious lock on the other side. I tried the next one and got the same problem.
“What are you doing?”
I shrieked and turned around. Chase’s face met my gaze. His wet hair was slicked back. Anger etched at the corner of his eyes.
“I’m looking for the kitchen.”
“Your mouth does this weird thing when you lie. It’s doing that now. Besides, the fact that I imagine you can find a kitchen in any home you enter.” He stared at the door on the left for a minute and then returned his attention to me. “What are you looking for?”
“I just wanted to see what was behind these doors.”
“Why?”
“Because. . .maybe there are some clues or something.”
“Clues?” He raised his eyebrows. “What case are you on?”
“Who shot Jasmine is my case.”
“The identity of the shooter isn’t in either of those rooms.” He grabbed my hand and tried to pull me away.
“Then what is?”
“Nothing but memories.”
I yanked my hand away. “Your memories?”
“Some.”
I couldn’t wipe the smirk off of my face. “Then let’s see them.”
“Aren’t you hungry?”
“No, I’m full off excitement right now. You were a cute kid.”
He stepped forward like a deranged man. His face reddened. His hands fisted at their sides. “What pictures have you seen?”
Any words I’d had left me at the sight of him being so angry. “I didn’t see any pictures.”
“You said I was a cute kid.”
“I was talking about the painting on the mantel.”
Sighing, he backed up. “Okay.”
I stared at him a few seconds longer. “What the fuck was that?”