Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 134706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
I frown . . . what the hell is up with this kid? “What a stupid name,” I whisper back.
“His name is Harry,” Patrick says.
“Yeah, well, Harry is psychotic,” I reply with my eyes locked on Harry. I tap my temple. “Weirdo,” I mouth.
Harry makes crazy eyes and puts his hands around his own throat and begins to choke himself as I watch. He makes choking noises and falls to the floor and then plays dead.
What the . . . ?
I stare at his lifeless body on the floor.
I’m not even joking; this kid is fucking deranged.
Claire comes rushing in from a room at the back. “Oh my God, Tris. I didn’t have any ice, so we will have to use a bag of peas.”
She places them on my foot. My ankle is now the size of a football and throbbing like a bitch.
“Get up, Harry,” Claire says as she tends to me. He gets up and runs out of the room, and I stare after him. I don’t trust that kid. Something is seriously off here.
I need to keep my wits about me in this house . . . the end is near.
The corner of the bag of peas is open, and they spill all over the floor. A dog comes running through the house with a bucket tied to its head and begins to eat the frozen peas off the floor. “Woofy,” Claire calls. “No, boy.”
I frown as I watch in horror.
What is this godforsaken place?
Savages . . .
The middle child—what’s his name, Harry?—comes back into the room with what looks like a dressing gown cord and a teddy bear. He sits opposite me, and I frown as I watch him. What the hell is he doing now?
“I’ll drive you home, Tris,” Claire says.
My eyes are locked on the evil kid. He ties the cord around the teddy bear’s neck.
“You’ll have to leave your car here,” Claire continues.
The kid stands on the couch across from me and lets the bear drop. It hangs by the noose. “Broken neck . . . he’s dead,” he whispers.
Get out . . . get out . . . get out of the fucking house.
I stand in a rush and trip over the dog, who is eating the peas. “Fuck,” I cry in pain.
“Tristan, you can’t drive,” Claire gasps.
“Well, I’m not fucking staying here,” I stammer. I hop out the front door and take one last look around.
I never knew what hell looked like.
Now I do.
“Tristan, come back.”
I hop out onto the porch. “Goodbye, Claire,” I call. It was nice knowing you.
Chapter 10
I lie on the couch with my foot raised. I have an ice pack on it, and it’s throbbing and swollen.
This is just great. How in the hell am I supposed to work when I can’t even get a shoe on? The swelling had better go down overnight. I’m sure it’ll be fine.
I rearrange the ice pack and lie back down.
My mind goes over this afternoon and what I saw at Claire’s house.
I have no words.
None that will make me less shocked, anyway. When she said she had three sons, I was picturing cute little kids who play with LEGOs.
How wrong could I be?
Her children are nearly grown men—angry grown men . . . ones who hate me.
I get a vision of the house and the pets and the psychotic kids, and I shake my head in disgust.
She said we were at different stages of our lives, and I really didn’t understand what she meant.
I get it now.
We have nothing in common . . . apart from our sense of humor, of course—but as a whole . . . it’s not enough, and to be honest, it pisses me off.
We could have had something. We could have had something fucking great. Claire Anderson is near perfect. However, the life she has . . . is not, and I don’t want to be around those feral kids for even ten minutes. I hate that she has to deal with them alone. She has so much weight on her shoulders, and I don’t know how she bears it. What must it be like to be her?
It’s not your problem.
I get a shiver as I picture the middle child, and I hate to admit it, but the violent oldest one seemed almost normal compared to that serial killer in the making.
I get a vision of him hanging the teddy bear. What the hell was that about?
Did I imagine it?
My phone dances across the coffee table, and I pick it up to see the name Claire.
Shit. “Hello,” I answer.
“Hi, Tris.” My face falls into a sad smile at the sound of her voice.
Fuck it . . . why does she have kids . . . animals—whatever the hell they are?
“I called to see if you’re okay,” she says.