Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 46899 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 234(@200wpm)___ 188(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46899 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 234(@200wpm)___ 188(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
The rain kept coming.
I kicked the SUV back into gear and pulled away, my chest tight, my hands shaking just enough to piss me off. I didn’t know how long I drove. Long enough to pass our shared house without slowing. Long enough for the roads to empty and the city to thin out until it felt like I was driving through the ribs of something hollow.
Eventually, I ended up at the cemetery.
I’d never talked to anyone about this. Not really. Maybe because it felt ridiculous—confessing fear and desperation over someone who was gone. But he was who I talked to even though he was gone. If he were here he’d recognize the kind of desperation that makes people do unthinkable things. The kind that convinces you there are worse options than insanity.
I parked.
The rain softened as I grabbed an umbrella and walked deeper onto the property, gravel crunching under my boots, the air thick with wet earth and old stone. The world felt hushed here, like even the storm knew to lower its voice.
I stopped in front of his gravestone.
And for the first time since Louis walked through that door, I let myself feel afraid.
And for the first time since his death.
I cried.
“Hey, Grandpa Frank.”
I barely got his name out before I broke. I always did when I came here. Always. The tears hit fast and humiliating, my chest tightening as if grief had been waiting patiently for me to show up.
He’d passed a few years ago. Everyone kept it quiet—or at least they thought they did. My dad took it the hardest. But I remember the night like it was yesterday.
A rock hit my window.
I bolted upright, heart pounding, already reaching for my gun—until I saw him standing in the yard like he owned the darkness.
Grandpa Frank.
He was dressed in full gear. And by gear, I mean a three-piece suit—because seeing him in shorts would’ve caused a family-wide medical emergency. His black scarf was wrapped snug around his neck, his hat pulled low over his brow. Cane in hand, he lifted it in warning, like get out here before I use this.
I changed fast and ran outside.
“Grandpa,” I whispered. “What are you doing?”
He shrugged. “Looking at the moon. Thought you could use some company.”
I laughed. “It’s three in the morning.”
He turned toward the back porch and started walking. “I doubt you were sleeping. Too much going on in that head of yours. Always thinking. Always reacting like you don’t have a thought in your head when the problem is—you’ve got too many, Tempest.”
How did he know?
Sometimes I think he was the only one who really saw me. Even more than my sister.
He sat in one of the patio chairs, and I slumped into the chair beside him.
“I got straight A’s again.”
He grinned. “Good. You proud of yourself?”
Not really.
“I’m bored.”
He sat facing the unlit fire pit. I flicked it on, the flames jumping to life in front of us. “I mean, I know I’m lucky. Money. Power. Prestige. Blah, blah, blah. But I want something that’s mine. Something that isn’t tied to the family.”
He nodded slowly. “Mmm. And what would you do if you could do anything?”
I tilted my head. “No one’s ever asked me that.”
“I’m not no one.”
I smiled. “Okay. Take this to your grave.”
He chuckled. “Might be sooner than you think.”
I bit my lower lip. “I want to be made.”
His eyes widened.
“Hear me out,” I rushed on. “I’m just as good as the guys. Hand-to-hand. Grappling. I could be—like a black widow or something. I’d be good at it. If Dad would just—”
Grandpa burst out laughing.
“Oh, I have to be there when you tell him,” he said between cackles. “Might claim it’s my dying wish.” He slapped his knee. “Best day of my damn life. A black widow. Hell, what’s stopping you? Go out there and bite, little girl. Take a big ol’ bite out of life.”
He laughed harder, then softened. “Best decision I ever made was having kids. And grandkids.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m thirteen. I highly doubt he’s going to be thrilled with this career path.”
Grandpa shrugged. “Then he can take it up with me.”
He pulled me into a hug, warm and solid and safe.
“You could collect bugs for the rest of your life and I’d still be proud of you,” he said quietly. “Do what makes you feel alive, honey. Do what makes you brave.”
18
LOUIS
The life of man [is] solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short. — Thomas Hobbes
The restaurant wasn’t anything to get excited about.
Then again, it never was. You hide in plain sight. You disappear into the smell of frying chicken and steamed vegetables, into families laughing too loudly, children whining for dessert, the flush of a bathroom toilet down the hall. You hide among the normal.
The Vescovi family understood that better than most.