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)
"I should probably go home," I admit, pushing my plate away from me when my stomach turns at the thought. I haven't been home at all since the morning I fled to L.A. I'd like to say that's because I didn't want to deal with the media, but the truth is that I've been too much of a coward to walk through the front door and deal with the memories of Cam that will inevitably hit me. When I face them, all the pain I've been ignoring is going to drag me under. It's going to break me…and I'm not sure I'm strong enough to survive breaking.
"You can stay with me for as long as you need to," Erin promises, reaching out to squeeze my hand.
"Thanks." I give her a sad smile, feeling guilty for doubting her when she's been nothing but amazing to me for so long. Maybe I am overreacting about the pictures and drawing conclusions that just aren't there. But I don't think I am…and that's what really scares me.
"What are you waiting for?" I mumble to myself, standing in the doorway of Erin's bedroom early the next morning, staring at the computer sitting on top of her desk. She's been gone for an hour already, but I haven't managed to step into her bedroom. She's my best friend, and I'm considering invading her privacy in a major way. Without even having given her the chance to explain.
But something isn't right. I feel it in my bones.
Drawing a deep breath, I step over the threshold, half expecting for her to jump out and ask what I'm doing. The fear is completely irrational given that she's on her way to the airport to catch a flight to Atlanta. But I still find myself exhaling a relieved breath when she doesn't appear.
I quickly weave my way around the mess to her computer. It takes me another two minutes to convince myself to sit in the chair.
Once I do, my curiosity overrides my sense of decency. I slide my hand over the mouse and wait for the screen to come on. The same photo of Chris Hemsworth pops up in the background, but the folder with my name on it is no longer on the desktop.
"What the hell?" I mumble, scanning through the remaining folders without finding it.
She moved it.
Why?
Any reservations I had about invading her privacy vanish in a puff of smoke. I quickly tap on the Start Menu icon and then type my name into the search bar. The little magnifying glass appears. Almost immediately, documents begin to pop up, one after the other. I click the button to see more results and then blink, taken aback. There are almost one thousand results.
My heart rate picks up. I begin browsing through them. Most of the results are innocuous…emails and IM conversations between the two of us and things like that. The folder of my photos is there. She's moved it from the desktop to another folder somewhere else, hiding it from sight. Other pictures are scattered around in different places. Near the end of the list are hundreds of entries for temporary files.
I click on the first and Chrome opens. An error page loads, advising that the operation cannot be performed. I back out of the browser and click on the next file, only to get the same results.
My frustration grows as I click through one after another, each telling me that the operation cannot be completed because my session has expired.
I try three more with no success. Clearly, I'm not going to find anything that way.
"Maybe because there isn't anything to find," I tell myself, disappointed that I haven't found anything. I should be happy about that, but I'm not. My instincts are urging me to keep going, to keep digging.
I shrink Chrome and scroll through the search results again.
I'm on the verge of giving up when a saved email catches my attention. It's from her to me, dated six months ago. The subject line reads, "HOUSTON!!!" in all capital letters. I pull it open.
My blood freezes in my veins when I see the exact date she sent it.
"Oh my god," I whisper, another piece falling into place. The date and location matches the one on Cam's list of dates and places Fake Ivy checked into on her Facebook account. Erin was with me on my trip to Los Angeles, too…the one that coincides with Fake Ivy's trip to L.A…the one where Rory attended my show and sat at the table right beside her.
Where else did Fake Ivy check into on her account?
I can't remember. I sit there for a long moment, staring at the screen, trying to decide what to do next, and then I say screw it and open Chrome again. Holding my breath and praying I'm wrong, I surf to Facebook.