Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78867 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78867 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
My inaction left a little girl battered and bruised and a woman dead. I doubt I’ll ever be able to forgive myself for it.
It would be asking too much for Spade to offer any sort of empathy. I don’t deserve it even though I long for just that.
As he urges me inside, I go over everything I missed, starting from when I was in high school. I question each and every memory, every conversation I ever had with Will and his cousins.
Nothing comes to mind. I was completely ignorant to what they were doing.
Was I lucky? Did they consider abducting me? How could Will hurt women at night and smile in my face and be my shy friend during the day?
None of it makes sense.
“Stop,” Spade whispers, his hands clamping mine before I can run them over the top of my head for the millionth time.
Him being here grounds me, and as much as I want to argue when he drops his duffel on my bedroom floor, I can’t seem to manage that either.
My guest bedroom has become a catchall for the things I don’t feel like dealing with, so insisting he stay in there isn’t an option. The bed is covered in boxes and discarded impulse buys and probably would take until the sun comes up to clear.
Instead of just accepting everything that has happened tonight, I vow to deal with it tomorrow. I spin around and head back into the kitchen.
Spade is frowning at the bottle of wine in my hand when I reenter my bedroom, but the man doesn’t open his mouth. I’m well aware that adding more alcohol to the problem isn’t really going to help, but it has the power to boost the numbness that is threatening to fade with each sobering breath that shudders out of my mouth.
I don’t want to live in this reality. I hate it here.
I’m not ignorant to what goes on in the world, but facing it firsthand rather than watching a story on the news or seeing a social media post is nearly impossible to handle.
After taking a long pull from the bottle, I let it coat my tongue before turning the bottle up again, gasping as the cool liquid slides down my sore throat.
Spade is still frowning at me as I set it on my bedside table and begin to strip out of my dress. Tonight was supposed to be fun, a way to make heads turn despite my discomfort. It worked. Spade gave me a second look when I entered the clubhouse, and I felt justified. I felt like the sexiest woman alive, but then he got distracted.
At first it was by the kids having their pre-countdown party, and by the time the other women showed up, each one of them sexier than the next, it was as if I didn’t exist.
It bothered me then. Right now? I don’t even care. I’m disgusting, vile, a woman who doesn’t question bad things going on around her because of what? A friendship with a man I hadn’t seen or spoken to in years? It’s as if I allowed the awful behavior to continue by saying nothing. I’m not just complacent but an accessory to it, my passivity providing my approval for such horrendous actions.
“Let me help you.” Spade turns me, his fingers gliding over my skin as he lowers the zipper on my dress after I struggle to reach the damn thing.
It isn’t a sexual touch, but there’s just something calming about the warmth of his skin on mine that I want to cling to, but I know I don’t deserve the reprieve.
I hate the absence of him when he steps back without making any overtures, and I view it as his disgust with me, another sob getting stuck in my throat.
I’m exactly what he hates—a woman who made excuses for a bad man. I might as well have abducted those women myself.
The strapless dress leaves me braless as I reach for a nightgown very similar to the one he saw me in at the bed-and-breakfast in Telluride, but as it glides over my head and down my body, he doesn’t make a quick joke about me wearing something many grandmothers would wear. I’m not even worth the comedy at this point, and I can’t blame him. If I could get away from myself right now, I would.
I do my best to ignore the tremble in my hand when I reach for the bottle of wine, but he stops me before I can wrap my fingers around the neck, my eyes fluttering closed as he pulls it back into his chest.
Sadness and regret flow down my cheeks in rivers before the sobbing renews. My body doesn’t care that my face is red and raw from crying. It doesn’t seem to be in a forgiving mood either.