Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
I keep reading. The main character is a girl in her senior year of high school. A girl who looks at her male teacher differently than the other kids do. It sounds like she might have a crush. She’s daydreaming, looking out the window at a yellow finch—
A yellow finch.
My breath comes up short.
My heart pounds.
I close my eyes and manage to shake it off, laugh out loud at myself even. I’m being ridiculous. It’s just a bird. And find me a high school kid who doesn’t stare out the window daydreaming at some point. I’m just being paranoid.
I read another paragraph, then another, but the farther I go, the more I realize I can’t shake it off anymore. A sheen of sweat forms on my forehead, though the bathwater has grown cool. I read rapidly to the end and swallow.
This isn’t fiction.
This is a real story, a true story.
But that’s not possible. Is it? Maybe it’s just . . . similar.
I wipe my forehead, grab my wineglass, and gulp the rest down. Then I flip back to the beginning and read again. It’s just a first chapter, but the names, what the teacher does, it’s . . .
Definitely not fiction.
And while I might’ve only read the beginning of the story, I already know the ending. Mr. Sawyer has an affair with my best friend, Jocelyn, and winds up dead.
Because I killed him. Exactly twenty years ago today.
CHAPTER
2
Chapter 1—Hannah’s Novel
Jocelyn stared out the window, watching as a bright yellow finch landed on a branch, bringing its nest full of babies their regurgitated meal. It was supposed to be innate, wasn’t it? The nurture of a parent—feeding, bathing . . . physical affection. Yet this morning she’d been the one to wake her mother, make her breakfast, help her into the shower. Then again, finches couldn’t stumble to the liquor store and pick up a plastic bottle of vodka that made them forget their role in life.
“Miss Burton . . .” Her teacher stopped at her desk. “Are you with us this afternoon?”
She blinked a few times and cleared her throat, feeling her cheeks turn pink. “Sorry. Yes.”
Mr. Sawyer placed a packet of stapled papers face down on her desk—her graded assignment—and waited until she looked up at him. “See me after class, please.”
Great. Just great.
Jocelyn glanced once more at the finch before forcing her attention to the front of the classroom. Her eyes landed on Mr. Sawyer’s ass as he continued down the row, handing papers back. It wasn’t her fault her gaze lingered. The man had a good body—way better than the boys her own age. She chewed her lip, contemplating how many hours of exercise her English teacher must do to look like that. Firm and fit, his ass complemented the rest of the man—broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and a smile that belied the sternness of his voice.
Her friend Ivy leaned over and whispered, “Close your mouth. You’re drooling.”
Jocelyn squinted. “I am not.”
Ivy chuckled and turned over her own paper. C−.
And Mr. Sawyer hadn’t asked her to stay after class . . .
Jocelyn had thought she’d nailed the assignment. She drew in a deep, steadying breath before flipping it over to check her grade. A+ was written at the top in red, a big fat circle around it.
Oh, wow.
Ivy leaned over again and snuck a peek, rolling her eyes.
After that, Jocelyn managed to pay attention for the rest of class. When the period was over, she approached Mr. Sawyer’s desk. Without looking up at her, he shuffled some papers and gestured to the first row. “Have a seat.”
Once the last students cleared out, he closed the classroom door and leaned a hip against the front of his desk.
Jocelyn sat up a little taller.
“Talk to me.” Mr. Sawyer folded his arms across his chest. “Do you have an interest in studying writing in college?”
She shrugged. “I’m not sure I’m even going to college.”
“Why not?”
Jocelyn’s eyes shifted to the window. She couldn’t see the finch now, but it was on her mind. She didn’t want to say her only goal in life was to find a job that paid enough money to get the hell away from her mother, so she said nothing.
“Jocelyn?”
Her eyes jumped to meet Mr. Sawyer’s.
“Look at me when I speak to you.”
She nodded. But instinct drew her eyes down again, so it wasn’t as simple as it sounded. Especially not when Mr. Sawyer—her secret crush—held her gaze in silence for a full minute.
Eventually, he smiled. “Thank you. I think you’re an excellent storyteller. Do you enjoy writing?”
Jocelyn nodded.
“Speak, Miss Burton. Use your voice. You’re not a bobblehead.”
She met his eyes once again. “Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Yes, I enjoy writing.”
“Excellent. Tell me what you do in your free time. Do you write for fun? Do you keep a daily diary?”