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)
“Murder is fascinating?”
“The world’s obsession with death.” Jackson nods toward the pile of split wood. “If you get another burst of energy, you can chop all those logs in half again so Eloise can lift them into her fireplace.”
“Are you critiquing my wood-chopping skills?”
He eyes the pile of wood. “I’m saying Eloise can’t lift heavy things.”
“I’ll split them again if it makes you happy.”
Happy? Jackson searches his weary mind for that word. When was the last time he was happy? “Are you leaving soon?”
Frankie rests a hand on her hip. “Not as soon as expected. I’m trying to decide—”
“Okay. Then chop the wood again.” Jackson slips into the garage and closes the door behind him.
After an hour of pounding the punching bag and lifting weights, he showers in the corner with cold water, opens a can of soup, and pulls up the surveillance cameras on his computer, rewinding the footage from the day. Then he checks his phone to track his target’s current location.
Later that evening, he sits down at his piano and plays something of his own. Just as he starts to tweak a rough part, there’s a knock at the door. He assumes it’s Eloise with cookies. She always bakes pizzelles because she’s Italian, and it’s her grandma’s recipe with a secret ingredient. Well, she was born in France, but her ancestors are from Italy, and she has family there. Eloise jumps at any opportunity to take someone through her family tree.
When he opens the door, it’s not Eloise.
“What do you know about toilets?” Frankie asks. She’s showered with wet hair, tiny pink cotton shorts, and a white crop top.
Jackson concludes that she must be proud of her nipples since he’s seen them twice in a matter of hours.
“I know it’s a myth that Thomas Crapper invented it,” he says.
Frankie inspects Jackson and his tattooed torso. When her eyes find his face, she blushes and clears her throat. “Mine won’t stop running.”
“Sounds like you need a plumber. Good luck with that.” He starts to close the door.
She slaps her hand against the door to keep him from closing it.
“What were you playing?”
Jackson dramatically swings his arms like a crossing guard when she brushes past him. “Come on in,” he mumbles.
Frankie scuffs her flip-flops along the concrete floor to his piano. The pads of her fingers feather across the keys without making a sound. “I taught my brother to play the piano. He wanted to learn just so he could impress Lynn.” She grins, staring at the keys. “He surpassed me in no time. I was always first, but he was always better. When he …” Her brow fills with lines. “When he took his life, I knew. I knew it the moment it happened. I called Lynn and told her to find him.”
Blowing out a long breath, she shakes her head. “It was too late. The void inside of me was instant.” Frankie peeks over her shoulder at Jackson with a sad smile. “We were twins.”
He snags a T-shirt from the top of a camo duffle bag and pulls it over his head. Why is she dumping all of this on him? A stranger. But … Jackson knows all about twins. He’s felt that invisible bond in the most excruciating way.
When their parents died.
When they had to change their identities.
When he nearly lost her.
Even now, as he ties up the last loose end that keeps his family separated, he thinks about Jessica. She’s always a whisper in his ear, giving him strength when he needs it and restraint when he’s on the verge of losing all patience.
“What?” Frankie appraises him through narrowed eyes, sitting on his piano bench, hands gripping the edge.
Jackson lifts his gaze to her, blinking several times. “I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face says a lot.”
“My face says I’m old and really fucking tired.”
A smile tugs at Frankie’s lips. “What are you? Fifty? That’s not that old.”
Jackson lifts an eyebrow for a second.
“You look sad. Not like you’ve had a bad day; more like you’ve had a bad life.”
He’s not a specimen for her to observe under a microscope. Retreating a few steps, he opens the door. “Sorry. I’m not an expert on fixing toilets.”
Frankie inspects the room with a slow, sweeping gaze before she stands. “It’s dark in here. Cold despite the heat. Depressing. It might be affecting your cheery demeanor.” She shuffles her feet toward him, stopping so close he can feel the warmth of her body and smell the sweet tones of her shampoo. “I don’t think you’re a serial killer.” Wetting her lips, she cants her head to the side. “But if you are, hide my body when you kill me. I don’t think my parents can live through another death.”
She bleeds the same blood. Jackson internally bristles at the similarities between them. Of course, he will never tell her that. The sooner she squares away everything in that house and leaves for good, the better.