Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 108709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
No other woman on this godforsaken earth has ever gotten under my skin the way that she has.
“Don’t fool yourself, Menace. Just because I haven’t attempted to take your life yet, doesn’t mean that I won’t. I have dreamed about that moment for seven fucking years, and I’m not about to give up on that dream now.”
She shakes her head, sitting up and leaning against the wall, her elbows braced against her bloodied knees as she stares at the dark wall in front of her, refusing to respond, but I don’t blame her. Hearing someone talk so casually about your impending murder isn’t exactly riveting conversation.
The minutes tick by, and the longer the silence grows between us, the heavier it seems to get. “I’m fucking sick of this shit, Menace. It’s just you and me now. Start talking.”
Aria scoffs and glances at me, her brows pinched in the center. “You realize you’ve got the wrong girl, right?” she says, looking up at me with a heaviness in her broken stare. “I don’t know what to tell you, Stone, but you’ve got your wires crossed somewhere. Whatever you think is going on here is some kind of messed-up coincidence, and I don’t want anything to do with it. I’ve never met you before. Never seen or spoken to you before today. The first time I saw you was seven years ago, along with the rest of the world, on a shitty TV screen. I just . . . I can’t work out what the fuck I have apparently done to you that is so fucking offensive that it’s going to cost me my life.”
“Stop with the bullshit, Aria. Why are you really here?”
“Holy fucking shit.” She drags her hands down her face, her mascara smudged beneath her eyes. “I don’t know what more I can say. My name is Aria Ashford. I’m twenty-four years old. I live in a shitty apartment complex, with an even shittier AC. I’ve been working at Pulse Media for four years, and I hate most of my colleagues. But despite the attitude that I use as a shield, I like to think that I’m actually a really nice person. I feed my neighbor’s cat when she goes on vacation.”
“Why the fuck are you telling me this?”
“So you can finally open your eyes and realize that I’m not who you think I am,” she pleads, but there’s no mistake here. I know this woman better than I know myself. I know the smell of her skin. I know the sound of her laugh. I know the way her feet sound as she’s running across the rain-soaked pavement. Every scar on her body. Every broken heart. I was there for it all. And the fact that she has the nerve to sit here beside me and pretend that she’s not the woman I know her to be isn’t just a fucking insult, it’s a goddamn slap to the face.
“I—”
A branch snaps under the weight of somebody’s foot on the opposite side of the wall, and I spring forward, my hand clamping over Aria’s mouth as she goes to continue with her bullshit alias. “Don’t make a fucking sound,” I warn her, my tone a low warning.
Her eyes are wide as I feel her breath against my hand, and as she holds my stare and nods, I watch a single tear roll down her delicate cheek before crashing against my fingers.
Trusting her to keep her mouth shut, I slowly release my hand from over her mouth, and she silently leans back against the wall, turning to face away from me as though just the sight of me beside her is shattering her heart into a million fractured pieces. Wouldn’t be the first time. I didn’t like making a habit of it then, and it still feels wrong even all these years later. The only difference is that she no longer deserves my sympathy.
As the minutes drag on, I intently listen to every noise around us—the raging alarm, the inmates, the guards, the heavy clanging of the doors echoing through the prison.
“Do you know what you’re doing?” Aria asks after the silence has dragged on too long.
I nod. “I’ve been tracking the guards’ movements for years,” I finally tell her. “There are blind spots in their surveillance and timing. At exactly four past eleven tonight, there will be a minute-and-a-half window where we will be able to make a break for it. We’ll have to cut across the yard, climb over two separate barbed-wire fences, and then through a clearing before finding cover in the woods.”
She gapes at me. “There’s no fucking way. You couldn’t do that alone in that little time, let alone dragging me along with you. That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s possible. I’ve been training for it.”
“Yeah, possible for you, maybe. Me? No chance in hell.”