Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
“And what if it’s empty?” My throat turns dry, and my gut twists. I haven’t let myself get my hopes up because I have no indication one way or another. I’d rather expect nothing and get a little something than expect a little something and get nothing.
“I have some money saved away.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Not as much as what you probably lost, but enough to get you moved back to Chicago or wherever you’re trying to go next.”
“I don’t want your money. I want my money. I don’t know why that’s so hard to understand,” I say. “And why should you have to pay for something your brother did? I can’t let you do that.”
“Donovan was an asshole,” he says. “I’m not trying to atone for his sins, but I don’t want to be just another asshole doing an asshole thing to you. If I’m taking the house, the least I can do is give you some cash to get on your feet.”
“Is that what you decided was fair?”
“Nothing about any of this is going to be fair, Anneliese. Any way we slice it, neither of us are going to walk away winners.”
“Really? Because it sounds like you’re getting what you wanted and I’m getting a consolation prize so you can sleep a little easier at night.”
His mouth presses flat, and his jaw clenches. “It’s not like that.”
“Yeah? Because that’s exactly what it sounds like.” I shove myself up from the couch, pacing the living room as my mind spins. “You know, it’s not fair that Donovan gets to rest in peace without ever answering for what he did, and now you come along with your offer and try to slap a shiny red bow on it so it seems a little less shitty than it really is.”
I was screwed over by one Byrne. I’m not about to be screwed by another.
“I hate him,” I continue, dragging my fingers through my hair before making a fist in the air. I’m sure I look like a lunatic, but I feel like one too. Three months of pent-up rage can do that to a person. “I used to lie in bed at night and fantasize about all the ways I’d get him back if he were still here. I’ll spare you the details because, honestly, some of them were pretty juvenile and I’m not in the mood to embarrass myself. But at the end of the day, the truth is . . . there is no getting back at a dead person. It just doesn’t work that way.”
Lachlan is statue still in his chair, though I can tell he’s listening to every word I’m spewing.
“And even if I did somehow get revenge on a dead person, what’s going to change?” I carry on. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. So what’s my next best bet? Salvaging anything I can from this project and moving on. You don’t understand, Lachlan—it’s not just about the money. It’s about proving to myself that I’m no longer the lovesick moron who fell in love with a con man. I can’t be her anymore. I refuse. And if I leave here with nothing but your pity money . . . I . . . I don’t even know . . .”
My thoughts fade, leaving me exhausted from their unapologetic weight.
I collapse back onto the sofa.
“What would you say to him if he were still here?” he asks.
“A million things, all at once.”
“Do you have any of his clothes?” he asks. “Did you save anything?”
I scrunch my nose. “There are a few things in my closet . . . what are you getting at?”
“Stay here.” Without another word he heads upstairs, disappearing up the dark stairs.
I’m left alone with nothing but footsteps, closing doors, running water, and the tick of the clock in the kitchen echoing through the hollow house.
Ten minutes later, he’s back.
Only it isn’t him.
I mean, it is—in the literal sense.
But the man standing before me looks every bit the part of Donovan, from the neatly parted hair, shiny with Brylcreem, to the crisp white button-down, navy sport coat, pressed khaki pants, and Italian-leather loafers. Every tattoo is covered. And the faint scent of Donovan’s cologne permeates the air.
I try to speak, but nothing comes out.
“I know it’s not the same,” Lachlan says, tugging on the cuffs of Donovan’s sport coat before clearing his throat and straightening his shoulders. “But it might be the only chance you get.”
He’s either insane, a genius, or a frighteningly dangerous combination of the two.
“Anneliese,” he says, lifting a finger and curling it, beckoning for me to come closer. I remain frozen on the sofa, still processing this moment. Stepping toward me, he takes my hand and helps me up. Chuckling, he adds, “Please don’t tell me I’m wearing my dead brother’s clothes for nothing.”