Total pages in book: 150
Estimated words: 151430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 757(@200wpm)___ 606(@250wpm)___ 505(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 757(@200wpm)___ 606(@250wpm)___ 505(@300wpm)
The hunter-green satin hugging Paige’s body shows more leg when she sits. God, I’d like to rip it right off her.
Fuck. Concentrate.
Staci sets a cardboard box on her desk and drops into her chair. “You can go through it if you want, but I trust you’re familiar with the material.”
She pushes the box closer.
What material? Who sent this? What even is it?
I take the box and start rummaging through it, unsure what I’ll find. First, I pull out old sketchbooks and start flipping through them. They’re from when Grandma was young. The paper feels brittle, faded, but still plenty readable like it’s been tucked away for years.
They’re very old. Her designs aren’t as elaborate or refined as the work she’s known for, but her talent is evident even in her early work.
There must be six sketchbooks full of drawings here, and under the last one, a stack of...letters?
My brows pull together as my eyes skim the words.
Holy shit.
A lot of them are love letters from my grandpa. I remember her frantically looking for these at least a year after he died.
Dread fills my gut like seething tar.
“Where did this come from?” I ask, a rawness in my tone.
“Oh, the donor was anonymous. A collector of her work, I believe,” Staci says, twisting her head. “I hope there isn’t a problem?”
Oh, but there is.
A big damn problem.
I hold up several letters, shaking them. “These are very personal. I’m not sure she’ll want to donate them for public view. I’ll need to talk to her.”
“Absolutely, can she come in sometime?”
“She’s still in the hospital.”
“Oh, yes, the heart trouble. God, I heard about that, I’m so sorry. I suppose you could take them and just bring them back if she’d like to make them part of her collection?” Staci offers, far too calmly.
The room is spinning.
There’s lava in my veins.
I’m so on edge it hurts when a fluttery hand traces my bicep.
I catch myself a split second before I fling Paige across the room, and instantly feel like an asshole. I need to get a grip.
“Ward? Are you okay?” she asks.
I don’t answer.
Paige watches as I continue pilfering through the box, my fury rising every second.
“I’m fine. I just need to know what’s in here,” I growl through my teeth, pulling out a few more letters and training my eyes on them like rifles.
Some of them are addressed to my mother, and some to my dad. They’re all from Grandma.
10/2/1996
Victor,
You’ve had plenty of time to think about this, and the whole world wants answers—including me. That young man’s family deserves answers most of all, and I’m sad that you’ve decided to remain silent, holed up in Florida.
You weren’t raised this way.
Your sons will be young men in no time. They deserve a better example.
Frankly, I’m glad the boys have spent most of their time here while you and that social butterfly you married traipsed around without a care in the world. At this point, I’m not sure they were safe with you. If they’d been on that boat...we can only imagine the horror.
There’s no nice way to say this.
Get it together, or you’re dead to me.
Sincerely,
Mom
This shit has to be from my old man. No one else would have it. Leave it to him to air dirty laundry.
The only question is why? What the hell does he want from us now?
I toss the letter in the pile of stuff. I’ll make sure it disappears down a deep, dark hole.
“I hate to disappoint, Staci, but I wasn’t aware of this material. Most of it’s confidential family stuff that doesn’t belong in a public exhibit or even an archive,” I say, leveling my tone.
My poker face can’t be as good as I think.
Paige stares at me in a way that says she knows I’m pissed and not doing a very good job of hiding it.
She can stay out of it. She’s not paid to care, and this fuckery isn’t her problem.
Her green eyes connect with mine for a sad second, and my gut sinks. I gave her fair warning certain monsters might surface when she signed on to our sham, but this is too soon.
“There was one more thing,” Staci says quietly.
“What?” I run my hand through the box, looking for anything I missed.
“This,” she says.
I look up, and there it is.
I’m staring at the incident that demolished my family and left Nick and me to be scrutinized by every person we’ve met since. A replica of it, technically.
My jaw tightens.
I don’t want that goddamned thing on display anywhere—I have a screaming urge to set it on fire—and I know Grandma doesn’t, either.
Yeah, no question now. My old man wants blood and these little souvenirs he’s dredged up are a threat. His usual theatrics that will only get louder if we don’t do what he wants.