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)
Zipper.
Button.
Then he climbs to his feet and takes her tear-stained face in his hands while she softly sobs.
He smiles before pressing a kiss to her wet lips. “Good night,” he whispers like they’re in a room alone. No fire. No one he needs to kill. Just a man kissing the girl good night. After he releases her face, Jackson faces Archer, who seems dumbfounded by his actions.
With a slight nod at Slade, Jackson curls his hand around his knife again, holding it at his side, his back to Frankie. Slade steps behind Jackson and takes Frankie’s hand to lead her out of the burning house.
Something explodes in an adjacent room, sending smoke billowing toward them.
Archer jumps back and coughs on the black cloud of smoke.
Frankie coughs as she and Slade exit the room. “Jack!” she screams.
Jackson doesn’t move. His lungs eat the smoke, no longer feeling the need for survival. Time isn’t of the essence when you’re willing to make the ultimate sacrifice.
“I did nothing,” Archer coughs, stepping backward when Jackson moves closer. “I … I transferred money.” He coughs some more. “I’m the fucking bank! You know that’s all.” He stumbles several more feet until he hits the wall, knocking a painting off its hook onto the floor.
“My wife.”
Archer shakes his head. “I didn’t ask for a name. It’s a fucking business, and you know it. You k-know the game.” He coughs again and again, barely catching a breath.
Jackson shakes his head. “My life is not a game!”
“FUUUCK!” Archer buckles at the waist when Jackson buries his knife between Archer’s legs.
Blood instantly soaks Archer’s pants.
This isn’t how Jackson wanted it. He wanted Archer to suffer more. But there’s too much smoke. Flames will descend upon them any moment.
Jackson removes his knife, no longer able to keep his lungs from sending him into his own coughing fit. “Did you stick your fingers inside of her too?”
Archer falls to the ground, curled onto his side. “AHHH!” His lungs release what is close to his last breath when Jackson presses Archer’s hand to the floor and cuts off his fingers one at a time.
Archer’s cries die. No more coughing. His eyes barely blink. And there’s nothing but a weak wheezing sound pressing through his lips.
Another explosion sends flames through the wall, knocking Jackson on his back, feet from Archer. He lifts his throbbing head, barely able to see the outline of Archer through the thick smoke. The blazing heat makes standing impossible, so Jackson army crawls toward Archer. When his hand bumps the knife, he takes it and lunges forward, making his own excruciating cry from the pain as the blade lands somewhere in Archer’s limp body.
Jackson can’t breathe. It’s suffocating, like nothing he has ever experienced. He’s been close to death, but never like this. When he tries to pull the knife out, his hand goes limp. Everything goes limp.
Everything fades to black—except for the music.
It’s the song he wrote for Ryn. She’s twirling in a circle, holding Livy—blond hair and ribbons flowing in the breeze. He has a perfect life.
“Daddy!” Livy squeals when he hugs them both, nuzzling his face into Livy’s neck before kissing his wife’s red lips.
Then … nothing. It’s as if someone unplugged the television during his favorite scene of his favorite movie.
“Get the fuck up …” Angry words echo a million miles away, but they fade as quickly as they bring him out of silence.
In the next flash, he’s dancing with Frankie to “Heavenly Day.”
“I’m not wearing anything under this dress.”
She’s breathtakingly … well, everything about her is breathtaking. She’s a second chance when he never thought he deserved his first one.
“The lamb? No. Do you really think I’ll be allowed to return home after letting you sacrifice your old ass to torture someone when you could have put a bullet in his head and walked out with me? No. And here’s the thing … I don’t want you to ever fucking forget that I came back for you, unlike some asshole who leaves people for dead after they save your only child.”
Thunk!
Jackson’s lying on something.
“Jack!” Frankie’s voice cracks in panic.
“Take his car,” Slade says.
“Where?”
“As far from here as possible.”
“Then what?” Her voice shakes.
“Then nothing.”
Just play another song, Frankie. I’ll dance with you all night—with or without your sister-wife dress.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
FRANCESCA
I take his car back to Eloise’s. It’s as far as I can safely drive. And even the ten miles to Boone feels like a stretch for using the word “safely.” Halfway there, the sky opens and unleashes buckets of rain and blinding streaks of lightning.
Pulling into the garage, I focus on the rhythmic windshield wipers for long minutes before pressing the button to close the door behind me. Killing the ignition, I stare out the windshield at nothingness in a numbing quietude. This morning, I was with Archer, feeling in control.