Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 135300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
I tap my fingers on the steering wheel, impatiently checking my phone every few seconds.
It hasn’t been thirty minutes since Margot last texted. No need to worry yet.
Fuck, I should’ve left sooner.
But it was too important to see the kids off until their plane was in the air. Sophie can be a nervous flier, especially without me there.
For now, they’re safe.
Mom will meet them as soon as they get to Portland, and there’s a flight attendant keeping an eye on them until they do.
Meanwhile, Margot’s alone at that house, and I’m still nearly an hour away, if my Google Maps are accurate.
Damn.
Call it illogical and I won’t disagree.
She was sure she’d be fine, but she doesn’t know what this stalker freak might be capable of.
Honestly, neither do I, and that’s the problem.
You can’t prepare for a shit scenario when there’s too much uncertainty.
Better the devil you know. There’s a reason they say it.
How I wish I knew this fucking devil.
Traffic inches forward, red lights blazing through the sheeting rain and horns blaring every time a car tries to cut through the snaking line of vehicles.
Time becomes excruciating.
I listen idly to the radio with a single-minded focus, trying to tune into the local Sully Bay station just in case there’s any news about the storm.
I don’t know what I’m expecting, but not knowing drives me berserk.
This person wants me. Not Margot.
She’s not the target.
She’s safe.
I repeat that mantra until it’s etched into my brain. If only that made me believe it.
Still, she’s a sensible girl. She’s not Daria and she won’t leave the doors unlocked.
Once on a family trip, my ex did exactly that, and we came back to our vacation rental with a beach bum stoner crashing in our bed.
Margot isn’t that stupid.
I can see her making the rounds, glued to her phone for any notification hinting trouble.
Everything’s fine.
If only I could convince my gut.
And at the thirty-minute mark when she should’ve texted me passes, I do my damnedest not to panic and try mudding it through the ditch.
She’s probably watching TV, you jumpy fuck.
Working on more shoe designs.
Cooking something delicious that’ll punch me in the nose the second I get back.
Yeah, that’s the sort of thing she’d do because my woman has a spine.
That doesn’t stop me when I can’t stand the radio silence a second longer.
I punch out a quick message asking for an update.
Last message from her was forty-three minutes ago.
That could mean nothing.
She probably put it down while she was cleaning or cooking or just lost track of time.
After all, I told her I was leaving, and the traffic would suck.
All thanks to this dick-dragging weather.
Another ten minutes limp by and she doesn’t message me back.
Shit.
I’m a patient man, but everyone has their limits.
So I call her, wrenching my way around a car and creeping along the edge of the asphalt in a dangerous sprint that gains me a few extra feet of road.
The call goes straight to voicemail.
I start talking before the beep, but there’s a catch like someone picks up.
“Margot?” Nothing. “Margot? You’re scaring me, woman.”
Static.
A burst of mindless distortion, and then two distant voices.
I can’t make out the words, but there’s a man’s voice, and a higher-pitched one that has to be her.
A scream.
Definitely Margot.
My heart leaps up my throat.
“Please.” She’s pleading and I grit my teeth, tightening my fingers on the wheel as I wrench it to one side, narrowly avoiding a collision as I swing around another car.
“Shut it,” a man growls, and the call disconnects.
Shit. Shit!
All this time, I’ve tried to convince myself she’s okay, when she’s actually in very real danger.
I tell Siri to call the police. It takes forever to connect, minutes of the connection glitching.
Will this fucking traffic ever let up?
I pound the horn with my fist, slowly muscling through the wall of cars in front of me.
“Hello… what’s the location of your emergency?” The dispatcher’s voice is still distorted when I finally connect.
“Sully Bay, Fleet Street. My girlfriend’s being assaulted,” I snarl, describing it the best way I can.
“Can you repeat that, sir? I’m sorry. Due to the weather, there’s been a high number of incidents tonight and communication issues—”
I spit the full address as calmly as I can, which is about as chill as a raging moose.
“Copy that,” he says quickly. “I’ll get someone out there soon. Please be advised all our local officers are tied up with accidents, so officers will come from the next town over.”
“Next town? Fuck.” I close my eyes, knowing that probably means Bar Harbor. “ETA?”
“Forty minutes. I’m patching through the details now.”
Far too goddamned long.
“Thanks,” I clip and disconnect, focusing on cutting through the traffic, one hand hovering over my horn.
Give me ten tickets, suspend my license, I don’t care.
As long as I get to the fucking house.
Knowing she’s in trouble glazes my blood. I never got a chance to tell her—