Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 128083 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128083 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
A muscle jumped in his jaw, and he let go of her hand. “Bygones?”
She nodded, her heart pumping faster and causing a slight head rush. This felt all wrong. She was handling this poorly, and she knew it. She’d told him she was sorry he’d been blindsided, but she had been too. And she was floundering. She didn’t know this man, not then, and certainly not now. And yet there was so much between them. So much. If she hadn’t realized it previously, she realized it now.
Rex squinted off behind her and dragged his teeth over his lower lip before meeting her eyes again. “Can I be forthright?”
She blinked as he obviously waited for her answer to the question she’d thought was rhetorical. “Uh, yes. I hope you will be.”
He squinted off to the side for a moment like he was gathering the proper words, and she drew back slightly as though those words were going to be volleyed at her. “I don’t know exactly what bygones are when it comes to you, Cami,” he finally said, meeting her eyes. “If you’re looking to tuck the past between us away, that’s fine by me.” He paused, his forehead lowering. “I couldn’t be any sorrier for what happened to you. What you survived . . . it’s unthinkable. But the fallout ruined me too. I would never compare the losses we suffered; I know mine weren’t even in the same ballpark. I hope you’ve found a way to move forward, even if only in most ways. But, Cami, I really don’t have anything more to say to you than that.” And then Rex Lowe turned and walked back into his house, shutting the door firmly between them.
Chapter Sixteen
Cyrus Sanders came awake on a musty-smelling mattress in an unfamiliar room. For a few minutes, he simply stared at the wooden wall, attempting to retrieve the memory of how he’d arrived there. A flash of dusty shoes moving in front of him raced through his mind, and the sound of a car slowing down in the gravel, over his shoulder. He must have looked to see who was stopping behind him, right? But for the life of him, he couldn’t pluck that memory from his mind. All he remembered was that he’d been walking home from school when the car approached. That was all he recalled before . . . now.
Apprehension fluttered between his ribs, but it felt muffled, like someone had thrown a soggy blanket over his emotions. He was scared, but it didn’t feel important. Gingerly, he lifted his aching head, his ears pricked for any sound. He heard the distant drip of water and a far-off rumbling that might be a plane or a train. Birds too. Lots of them.
The bed squeaked loudly as he rolled over, and he stopped moving again as he listened for the approach of footsteps. But if someone was here with him, the sound of the rusty springs hadn’t alerted them that he was awake.
And there had to be someone here, right? The someone who had been in that car that approached before his memory went blank. Before they’d hit him or drugged him or whatever they’d done so that he’d blacked out. Which meant they were bad people who meant him harm.
His head cleared a little more, and that distant fear came closer. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, and he realized how dry his mouth felt.
He looked down at his feet, almost expecting to see a chain or a rope binding him to the bed, but they were free, and he was still wearing his shoes. His hands were untied, too, and he sat up slowly, pausing with each squeak of the springs and allowing the mild head rushes to settle. Cyrus took a brief assessment of his body, relieved that he was—so far anyway—unhurt.
There was a bottle of water on the floor by the door, and next to it was a package of Hostess cupcakes.
He stood, waiting again for footsteps that never came. And then, as quietly as possible, he moved toward the one window on the opposite wall and pulled the curtain aside. Bars. There were steel bars outside the glass, far too close together for him to fit through.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
He wouldn’t cry. It had been three years since Cyrus had cried, even though he’d had plenty to cry about, and he wasn’t going to start now.
Someone had nabbed him and put him in a locked room with bars on the window. He pressed his face against the glass, but all he could see was trees. The sky above was a soft orange, which told him the sun was setting. Had it been a day, or more than one? Cyrus wasn’t sure, but he did know that soon, it’d be dark.