Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 108165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
When the lights are off and Eloise is in her room, I stare at the ceiling from my bed, letting one more rogue tear escape. What have I done? And what will I do with this experience? Will I tell Molly when she’s with her best buds? Will I tell Corinne she should keep an eye on the black mole Archer has next to his pubic hairline? It might be precancerous. Maybe I’ll let them know together after I invite myself to lounge by their pool. Nothing goes better with a margarita than tales of how I jerked off their father-slash-husband in the back room of a restaurant, and he nearly came a second time watching me wipe his cum on my breasts.
What makes it so special is that Archer hasn’t connected the dots yet. He doesn’t know Francesca. He only knows Iris in the irresistible red dress, who doesn’t mind screwing around with a married man.
Grief changes people on a cellular level. It rewires the brain. It’s hard to remember how I saw the world before John and his family died. I don’t recognize the reflection in the mirror. I’m not sure I ever will.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
JACKSON
Jackson stays focused while Frankie spends the evening with Archer Sanford. He thinks about anything but Archer’s hands on her … or worse. He isn’t stupid. Frankie told him her game plan. And he knows Archer will take her any way and anywhere he can get her, even in the back room of a restaurant.
When Archer walks Frankie to her car and slides his hand up her shirt, Jackson’s grip on his gun tightens. His finger caresses the trigger while he peers through the scope. He has a clear shot to take him out.
Frankie balls her hands at her side and lets Archer touch her. Jackson hates that. But he lets it go from his mind. He controls his impulses because that’s what he’s trained to do. And he knows how losing the people you love changes all the rules in life. The aching void festers into something toxic and out of control.
How can he tell Frankie that what she’s doing is wrong when he’s taken so many lives? Hurt so many people. Committed unforgivable acts. He’s the fucking king of revenge.
The following morning, Jackson heads out for a jog in his long pants and long-sleeved shirt. (His tattoos make him too identifiable). A rhythmic creaking catches his attention. Frankie gently rocks in a wooden chair on Eloise’s front porch. An oversized tee covers her knees, which are tucked into her chest. Her hands cradle a steaming mug of coffee. She radiates innocence. His sister always did too. Sometimes, innocence is nothing more than a sleeping monster.
Frankie has nothing to offer but a blank, lifeless expression when their gazes meet. Jackson will remove the hand that Archer Sanford shoved up Frankie’s shirt. He’ll remove any part of Archer’s body that touched Frankie. And if that means he removes one finger at a time, so be it.
In the meantime, he beats his feet against the uneven terrain until exhaustion incinerates his thoughts. By the time he returns, the wooden rocker sits empty and idle. But the air fills with a familiar song. His song.
Jackson opens the door, and Frankie ignores him while she plays his song, the same lines repeatedly. It’s not her song to play.
“Leave. I need a shower,” he says, passing the piano and peeling off his shirt.
Frankie tests new notes and chords. They’re good notes, maybe even the right ones, but Jackson doesn’t want her finishing something that is, by design, not meant to be finished—the way his wife left their life together unfinished.
“Get the fuck out of here.” He turns on the hose by the drain.
Frankie stops playing.
Jackson feels the weight of her stare, but he doesn’t acknowledge it. His shorts and briefs join his sweat-soaked shirt on the concrete floor. The cold water numbs his aching muscles. It’s been a long time since he showered with warm water. He rubs the soap bar along his skin and scrubs it into his hair until weak foam forms.
Frankie plays a movie score. It’s romantic and vaguely familiar. She keeps playing while he dries off, but she’s not looking at the keys. Her gaze remains glued to him while he wraps the towel around his waist and shakes out his hair before running both hands through it.
The melody slows until Frankie’s hands pause, leaving the song unfinished.
“What’s the movie?” he asks, twisting the top of a bottled water with his back to her. When she doesn’t respond, he glances over his shoulder.
Frankie takes liberty with her gaze, making a detailed inspection of Jackson, lips parted, eyelids heavy. “Amélie. 2001 French film. Yann Tiersen. It’s a waltz,” she murmurs like an afterthought.
“I have to get dressed and…” he guzzles the whole water bottle “…work.”