Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 138642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 555(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 555(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
His vitals aren’t changing—not that I really know how to read that shit, I ain’t Ophelia—but the beeping hasn’t changed, so I guess he’s okay, just waking up.
I should get the nurse.
I turn away again.
Only, this time I’m stopped by cold, bony fingers pinching the back of my arm.
I freeze.
Law clings to me with too much strength for a man in his state, the needlepoints of his emaciated fingers digging into my arm.
When I look back, his eyes are marbles crafted in pure fear.
Bloodshot, entirely mad, red-rimmed—he’s awake, and staring right through me with an accusatory gaze that says he sees me.
He’s aware.
“The... the letters,” he wheezes. His voice has the rawness you’d expect from someone whose throat was burned, first by a flesh-wilting poison and then by a breathing tube. “I... I buried them where they b-buried the bones.” Law stares at me like he’s trying to grind something urgent into me. “T-tried... tried to w-warn her. Tried to stop her, you... you have to save her.”
“Save her? Save who?” Alertness spikes flashes of cold through me. Fuck. Was that what he was trying to do? Save Ophelia from something? From what? I step closer and lean over him. “What am I saving her from, Mr. Law?”
He just stares at me.
“Mr. Law,” I say again. “I’m Captain Grant Faircross with Redhaven PD. I’m on your side. If you want me to help Ophelia, you’ve got to tell me more.”
“The letters,” he repeats in a fading whisper. His grip on my arm goes lax.
Goddammit.
His eyes lose focus and his head falls back against the pillow, staring blankly up at the ceiling.
“I... I was there,” he breathes, but I don’t think he’s talking to me anymore. “The night that boy... that night th-they ran him off the road. I was there...”
...that boy?
“Ethan?” I gasp, catching his arm. “You talking about Ethan Sanderson? Did someone run him off the road?”
And he’s gone.
Eyes rolled back, closing as he goes slack, his hand falling away to dangle from the bed like a broken doll.
Fuck me.
Looks like I’ve got some serious digging to do. An old case to reopen and answers to find, even if it pounds what’s left of my heart into slag.
I turn to head out again and this time no one stops me.
I stop by the nurses’ station and let them know he woke up, asking them to let me know if he does it again, and to record anything he says.
A quick glance at Angela’s room shows her alone now.
Ophelia and Nell are gone.
Damn.
I’m on the verge of something massive. I can feel it.
I just have to find out what.
Whatever I have to do to keep Ophelia Sanderson safe.
The forest clearing looks like a battered anthill that was kicked around by some bored kids when I get there.
The whole area has that wet earthy smell of fresh-turned mud you always get in October.
My team is mostly on the sidelines, talking with a few of the folks from Raleigh forensics as they bag and tag more soil samples for evidence. They mostly defer to Lucas to determine what we keep and what goes off to the Raleigh lab for more analysis.
“Anything interesting?” I ask, settling on the hood of Lucas’ patrol car.
Our combined weight makes it sag on its front tires.
Together, we watch while the Raleigh crew digs up these neat segmented squares, carving out one orderly piece of ground at a time.
“Full human skeleton. Scraps of clothing, but I’m guessing you knew that. The teeth in the skull are intact, I guess.” He glances at me, his cat-green eyes flashing. “Sounds like they might try dental records to get an ID.”
I just grunt.
I don’t need to say it.
He’s a Redhaven native and only one degree removed from Ethan’s mystery with his own missing sister for so long.
He gets it.
“Nothing else?” I ask.
“Not yet, but they’re still working it, Cap,” he answers—just as a call goes up from across the field.
“We got something!” a voice calls.
I glance at Lucas before pushing off the car and speeding across the clearing.
A woman in a white jumpsuit and mask crouches over a hole in the ground, gingerly sweeping dirt off—wood?
Yep, polished wood.
Her gloved hands gently lift up a gleaming box of rose-tinted redwood, roughly the size of a shoebox.
Doesn’t look that old—and doesn’t look like it’s been in the ground all that long, either.
There’s not enough dirt accumulation to be as old as those bones.
Plus, the moisture along with the freezing, melting, and heating cycles would’ve warped the wood bad, never mind insects and worms eating away at it, too.
This thing was buried not too long ago.
The woman gives me a questioning look through her goggles.
I nod.
“Open it.”
She returns my nod and pries the latch. The little bronze hook opens smoothly, no rusty squealing, confirming its age.