Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 75195 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75195 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
I walked by the large kitchen. The sharp clatter of pots and pans echoed as Chef Pierre barked out orders to his sous-chefs.
In the living room, maids dusted. The soft swish of their cloths was barely audible. Every surface gleamed.
What the fuck will I do now?
My footsteps echoed on the marble floors as I stopped by the floor-to-ceiling windows.
The city stretched before me.
Its lights twinkled like distant stars.
Just fucking admit it. Only you can hear this.
I gritted my teeth.
Nova has changed something within me.
But, what was it? What did she do, and how could I get myself back?!
Suddenly, a distant murmur reached my ears.
The faint sounds of voices sounded further away.
What is going on?
I went off in that direction, recognizing both voices immediately.
Agony rode Dominic’s words. “Y-you tell him. I-I can’t. . .do you hear me, Spencer? I can’t watch Tristan. . .break.”
“Sir, I should have you sit down.” Spencer’s voice was calm and steady. “I will get you some water—”
“I-I don’t want water. I want answers. I-I want t-to scream at God!”
What’s wrong?
I picked up my pace.
My stomach twisted.
“Y-you tell him, Spencer.” Dominic pleaded. “I can’t. Do you hear me?”
I turned the corner, and my breath caught in my throat.
Dominic stood in the entryway. Ash and dirt covered his clothes. His face was pale and stricken. He looked as though he had just climbed out of a fireplace.
Shock hit me.
My butler was at his side, apparently trying to calm him down.
I rushed forward. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
Dominic turned to me. Tears spilled from his eyes. “Tristan. . .”
“What?”
“Peiter is dead.”
The words hit me like a physical blow, a crushing weight that almost brought me to my knees.
I stopped moving forward and froze right there.
Dominic doubled over and cried. “I t-tried to get him. . .out of the fire b-but. . .too much smoke. Too many flames. . .”
Dead? Peiter? No. That is impossible.
I stared at Dominic.
My mind refused to comprehend the reality of his words.
Dominic sobbed, and the room spun around me.
And still I barely stood. . .unable to move.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The Blues & Clues
Melancholy crept over me like a thick, oppressive fog, refusing to lift as Sunday dragged on.
Tristan’s face, the way he looked at me with those penetrating eyes that seemed to see straight through to my soul, only intensified the unbearable weight of sadness crushing my chest.
I desperately tried to shake it off, but it clung to me like a parasite, sucking away all my joy until I was left with nothing but the hollow hurt of emptiness.
Not even my cat, Freud could lift my mood as he cuddled on my lap.
For that day, the world lost its color, as if everything were covered in a grey veil.
Additionally, I found myself unable to muster any enthusiasm for even the simplest of things.
My research suffered.
In fact, I spent a large part of the time sitting by Scarlett in my pajamas and eating ice cream.
Once Paradise City news announced the second incident of a woman being set on fire, Scarlett shifted into amateur sleuth mode.
How could she not? Now two women had been murdered, their bodies found burned in a horrifying ritual that sent chills down my spine.
She jotted down details and replayed the news report over and over to the point where I had a lot of the information memorized.
Our living room had been transformed into her personal investigation headquarters.
Gruesome pictures plastered the walls, crime scene photos so explicit they would make most people’s blood run cold. And she never told me where she got the images, just that she had met some new person that could hack into the police station. For some reason, she chose not to elaborate.
Regardless, maps of Paradise City marked with the locations of the murders, were spread across the tables, and notes, clippings, and articles were pinned everywhere.
I found myself drawn into her world of murder, fascinated and horrified in equal measure. The images and stories were disturbing, yet they offered an escape from my own emotional turmoil. In the face of such violence and darkness, my problems with Tristan seemed insignificant.
The second victim was a Caucasian housewife which triggered the FBI to rush down to work on the case. This fact brought up a lot of Civic Leaders of color throwing rallies to make sure the first victim would not be forgotten.
This poor woman had been set on fire in the middle of a playground, her body discovered late at night by a passerby who initially mistook the fire for some sort of macabre art installation.
The grisly scene was described with a trembling voice by the news anchor.
Apparently, her husband claimed that she had been missing for three days, but it was odd that he never notified the police that she was missing. This discrepancy didn’t escape Scarlett’s notice. Her pen paused mid-sentence, and she looked at me, her eyes wide and filled with suspicion. “Don’t you find that strange?”