Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 147545 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 738(@200wpm)___ 590(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147545 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 738(@200wpm)___ 590(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
I wonder if that’s how it will really feel.
I’ve only been to the lake house one other time—that night, last summer, when Tim Walters invited me to the party. They were having a bonfire, and a few people were going to take the boat out. He said it’d be fun. I wasn’t usually invited to things like that—especially by him—so I decided for once to try not to be such a wallflower, to pretty myself up and go hang out with my classmates.
I knew I’d made a mistake as soon as I got there. The girls treated my presence like a private joke, and the guys were being obnoxious. I wanted to stay, though. To give it a real chance. I needed to loosen up, so I took the bottle of fruity “girl beer” they offered me.
I did loosen up after that drink.
I shake my head, clearing it of the memories. I don’t want those. I never want to think about that night again.
I manage to find the driveway. The house is set back off the road, so the driveway is a bit long. Tension gathers in my shoulders as I roll down the path, my headlights seeming brighter as they hit the license plate on Tim’s stupid little sports car. I know they’re death traps, and I wonder briefly why he couldn’t have saved me the trouble and run his sporty little tin can into a tree or something.
I guess the tree wouldn’t have deserved it.
I turn off the car and open my snack cake. I planned to eat it on the way over, but I got lost in thought and forgot. Despite the state of my stomach, I’ll eat it now.
Once my treat is gone, I drop the wrapper on the passenger seat to clean up later—then remember I won’t get to do that.
Oh well. A wrapper is the least of the mess that will have to be cleaned up after tonight.
I grab the gun I brought with me and open the car door.
Darkness swallows the house, but there’s a light on in the living room.
I waited this late because I didn’t think he would be awake. I was prepared to break in if I had to.
The scenario I write about all the time is me showing up in his bedroom, the moonlight the only illumination in the dark space. He’s asleep when I come in, in a state where he should be safe, but his senses register a presence. His eyes open. Confusion, quickly followed by horror. He sees the barrel of my gun pointed at him, and he opens his mouth to speak, but it’s too late. I pull the trigger. He never gets to say a single word.
Since he’s awake, I consider ringing the doorbell. I could change my plan and shoot him when he opens the door, but if anyone else is asleep upstairs, I don’t want to wake them.
A sliver of doubt cuts through me. Maybe I shouldn’t do this—at least, not tonight. Maybe the timing is wrong. What if he’s not the one awake? What if it’s his brother? The chances that he would let me in seem minimal, and the chances that he’d not only let me in, but let me go upstairs alone to his brother’s room…
I’m starting to worry about this working when the choice gets taken away from me.
The door moves, and my heart sinks.
Fear shoots through me at the horrifying possibility of hurting the wrong person. Fuck his parents for standing by him, of course, but I wouldn’t feel okay about killing them.
My movements feel sluggish, time seeming to slow down as the door opens inch by inch. I pull the gun up, gripping it with unsteady hands, then adjust my hold so I can pull the trigger if it’s him.
I feel a pinch of relief when it is, but dread quickly follows. I don’t pull the trigger—not yet. I’ve always been able to tell Timothy and Torrance apart, but they are identical twins, and before I can do something this harrowing, I have to be absolutely certain my gun is aimed at the right one.
The guy in the open doorway is tall with broad shoulders, slim hips, and dark hair. He played sports in high school, and his athletic build hasn’t softened any since graduation. He’s wearing a red T-shirt and black sweats that sit low on his hips. His eyes are an icy shade of blue, and he needs a haircut. Maybe the funeral director can give him one.
Because it is Timothy Walters.
In sixth grade, Timothy Walters got glasses. He was a blossoming jock, so he got contacts the following year, but right now, it’s late, and he’s ready for bed, so he’s wearing his glasses.
Torrance Walters doesn’t wear glasses.
Then he speaks and removes the last trace of doubt.