Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 95676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
"Don't growl at me, Cam. This is my life," she reminds me.
"Fuck." I pull the phone away from my ear, cursing up a storm, and then reluctantly put it back to my ear. "A body washed up at Heron's Head two hours ago."
"Is it―Was it―?"
"I don't know yet," I murmur, my voice soft. My heart squeezes in a vise. "I'm on my way there now. I need you to go to your apartment and wait for me. Do I need to send someone to pick you up, sweetheart?"
"I…no. I'll be okay," she lies.
"I'll be there for you as soon as I can get free," I promise her. One way or another, I'll make it okay. "Everything's going to be fine. Just trust me, okay?"
For a long moment, she doesn't say anything. I know she hasn't hung up though because I can hear her breathing. It shakes on her lips, trembling as if she's fighting not to cry. And then she sucks in a deep breath…and knocks the air out of my lungs.
"I don't think that's a good idea," she says, her voice soft but steady. I hear the sadness in it and the guilt. The regret. "I appreciate all of your help, but I don't think we should see each other anymore. I…I don't want to see you anymore."
"Kitten," I growl in warning, not even questioning if she means it. I know she doesn't. She thinks she's sparing me by letting me go now. But I've already made my choice. I made it the second I kissed her. Hell, maybe I made it the second I set eyes on her.
"Goodbye, Detective Lewis. Thank you for everything," she whispers. And then she hangs up.
"Son of a bitch!" I growl, immediately redialing her number. It goes straight to voicemail. As soon as I'm done at this fucking crime scene, I'm finding her, and I'm spanking her little ass. She's not walking out of my life like this. Not a fucking chance.
Chapter Ten
Ivy
"What's your favorite book?" I ask my class, turning from the chalkboard to face them.
"Goodnight Moon!"
"Buwty and da Beast!"
"The mouse and cookie book!"
"The Nightmawe Before Chwistmas!"
"That's not a book," Tommy Howell says, laughing loudly at the little blonde seated beside him.
"Yes, it is!" Lilah Rodgers narrows her blue eyes on him and tilts her chin up. "My daddy wead it to me."
"Did not!"
"Did so!" Lilah yells right back at him.
"Did not, did not, did not," Tommy says, pushing his glasses up his nose before scowling at her.
"Tommy, Lilah, behave," I warn the two of them, clapping my hands together to get their attention.
They reluctantly back down, but not before Tommy sticks his tongue out at Lilah, who gives him a haughty sniff and pointedly turns her back on him.
"What happening to raising our hands?" I ask the rest of the class.
Half of their little hands immediately shoot upward.
"Much better," I say, scanning their eager faces. I stop at Malik Turner, who sits in the very back of the classroom, his head bent over the sketchbook on his desk. At six, he's already an incredibly talented artist. Unfortunately, that's the only thing he's shown an interest in since being placed in my class. He doesn't talk much and struggles with most of his work. "Malik, what about you?" I ask him softly.
His brown eyes turn in my direction, and he blinks as if only just noticing I'm there.
"Malik doesn't read," Tommy snorts. "He doesn't know how."
Laughter ripples around the room.
"Thomas Howell." I snap my head in his direction, my hands on my hips. "What did I tell you about bullying your classmates? Five minutes off your recess. If you interrupt again, you'll be sitting beside me for the entire period, do you understand?"
"Ah, man," he groans, slumping down in his chair.
Lilah smirks, clearly pleased.
My gaze drifts back to Malik to find his head down, his shoulders hunched as if he's embarrassed.
"Malik," I say again, causing him to glance up at me again. "Go ahead, sweetie. What's your favorite book?"
"Ivy Kendall?" someone says from the doorway before he can answer.
I turn to find Cam standing at the door beside two San Francisco officers in full uniform. He looks so handsome as he stands there, his feet planted and his arms crossed, causing the muscles in his arms to bulge beneath his tattoos. But gone from his face is the wicked smirk. The soft way he always looks at me is gone too, replaced by a grim, business-like expression. One that sends a chill through me.
"Cam?" I say, confused as the two officers start toward me. "What's going on?"
"You're under arrest," he says. His expression twists as he looks at me like he doesn't know who I am. "You murdered a kid."
Chaos erupts as my students begin to scream and cry hysterically. I try to rush forward to comfort them, but the two officers grab my arms, jerking me to a stop. I'm forced to stand helpless as they slap handcuffs on my wrists while my kids watch, big tears rolling down their faces.