Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 91164 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91164 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
To my right is a wall of cabinets. There’s a bathroom too. The door is ajar, and I peek inside it on my way to his desk.
I’m not sure how much time I’ll have, so I hurry, pulling out his chair and taking a seat. The wood creaks, the leather soft and worn. It feels safe. This is where Cassian spends much of his time.
I lift the lid of his laptop and touch the keyboard to bring it to life. It’s password protected, which I knew it would be, but I’m not here to break into his computer. I am curious, though.
A photograph appears on the screen. I look at it. Three people. A man and a woman and a little boy. I recognize the woman’s eyes. They’re Cassian’s. And I know the boy there is his brother because the woman is pregnant. That must be his father. He looks very different from the raving man at the charity. He’s much older than the woman. The little boy looks sweet. Seth. The smile on his face makes me smile. He’s holding his mother’s hand, and she’s got her other hand on the small swell of her belly. Her husband has one hand on Seth’s shoulder and the other arm is wrapped around his wife’s waist. The fingers of that hand are woven with the one of hers on her belly.
They look happy. They all look happy.
The screen goes black. It startles me, but it’s just gone back to sleep. I shake my head, remember why I’m here.
I want my mother’s ring. Malek took it and he used it against me. He had no right to touch it, to even look at it. It’s time I took it back.
Letting that determination harden me, I begin my search, opening the first drawer. This one has stationery, pens, paperclips. Nothing unusual. I close it and open the one to my right. Folders in this one. I take the one on top out. It’s thick. I open it and am instantly drawn in by what I see. The plans of the church. Lots and lots of drawings, measurements, changes. Pages and pages of it. I could spend hours studying at it all, but now is not the time. The next drawer is locked so I turn my attention to the other side.
When I try to open it, it sticks. I tug, wondering if it’s locked, but it opens abruptly. As soon as I see what is inside, I catch my breath. Because there, right at the top is a photograph I know.
How did he get this? What’s he doing with it?
It’s the one I keep—kept—by my bedside. My heart races and my eyes fill up to see it. It’s mom and me the year she died.
No. She didn’t just die.
She was brutally murdered.
I make myself say it.
This photograph is the last I have of her. It was taken the year she was brutally murdered by my father even if it wasn’t his hand to strike the final blow.
Malek wanted so badly for me to admit that. Well, there it is. My father was a butcher.
I take the photo out and study it. I touch my mom’s face. If she’d never met Malek, if she’d never met my father, what kind of life would she have had? Would she have fallen in love with the Maestro? Would she have been happy?
The thoughts just make me sad, though, and anyway, it doesn’t matter. Those things didn’t happen. The bad things did.
I set the photo down with the intention of taking it with me when I’m finished when I see the velvet pouch in the drawer.
My heartbeat picks up. I reach in, touch it gingerly. It’s the ring. It must be.
“Looking for something?”
I gasp, my gaze shooting to the door, to Cassian standing just inside it. How did I not hear him? I was so caught up in the memories of my mother.
“I—”
The door clicks shut, and Cassian is across the room in a heartbeat. His mouth is set in a tight line, his eyes narrowed.
He takes the pouch from me, pockets it and closes the drawer.
“What are you doing, Allegra?”
I finally get my breath back. “Why do you have this?” I ask, holding up the photograph.
“I took it from your room. The frame was broken, and I intended on getting you a new one. I thought you’d want it.”
“Why was it in your desk drawer if you thought I’d want it?”
“Because I’m trying to be careful with you right now.”
“You don’t have to be careful with me. I’m not made of glass.”
“Oh, I know that. You’re made of much stronger stuff.”
He slips off his suit jacket and drapes it over the back of the chair.
Stubble dusts his jawline, and shadows darken the skin beneath his eyes. He’s been going to bed with me, but when I wake in the mornings, he’s long gone, and I wonder how much sleep he’s getting.