Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
Except as soon as we look through the window, I discover I was wrong and there is something to find. And for the first few seconds, all I can do is stare at it.
At a head.
I almost get a sense of déjà vu from Arsen’s cabin, but it’s not an animal head. It’s the head of a human. A human man. That seems to be tilted to the side. Then I stare at the body it’s attached to. Or whatever I can see of it, since it’s sitting in a chair.
No, the body is tied to the chair, and it looks… dead.
“Holy shit,” Peyton breathes out from beside me.
“I don’t…”
I let my words hang in the air because I have absolutely no idea what I was going to say or what all of this means. I can’t even believe that what I’m seeing is real. Before I can gather my thoughts, Peyton moves. She goes around me, heading to the front door, and my heart drops down to my stomach. I already know what she’s going to do. She’s going to try to get in. And I don’t think that’s a very good idea.
“Peyton,” I call out, going after her, keeping my voice low but urgent.
“We have to go in,” she says in the same tone and without looking back.
“No, we don’t.”
She’s already climbing the stairs, her steps careful. “We have to.”
“No, we do not.” I catch up to her at the landing and snatch her arm, halting her in her tracks. “You need to stop and think about this for a second. We don’t even know who this man is and—”
“Do you really care who this man is when it looks like”—she drops her voice to a whisper—“he’s dead.”
“But—”
“And what if he’s not and we still have time to save him?”
“Peyton, I don’t—”
She straightens her shoulders. “Can you really live with yourself knowing that you could’ve helped him but you didn’t?”
No, of course not. But I was thinking more along the lines of getting help.
Which basically means getting him help instead of barging into a situation we know absolutely nothing about.
But of course I can’t say that to Peyton when she already thinks the Graysons are trying to hide something. Plus, I mean… there is a man tied up in here. Even if there might be a good explanation for that, I can’t think of a possible one right now. I can’t think of anything except that I want Arsen, and I want him to tell me what the hell is going on. Since none of these things can happen and everything is over between us anyway, we have to take matters into our own hands.
I stare at her for a few seconds. “Fine, okay, damn it. But I think”—I look around—“we need a weapon. Or something. Something to protect us.”
I’m not sure how helpful it will be, but we do need something, some semblance of protection, and after a few seconds of looking, we each find a broken wooden slat. She then uses hers to break the door open, the sound of which seems to echo in the quiet night, but we didn’t have a choice because the door was locked.
And then we’re in.
The only light is streaming through the dirty window so we can’t really see all that much, but now that we’re inside, we notice all the blood that’s streaked and pooled on the wooden floor. Not to mention that the man’s clothes, a torn shirt and a pair of pants, are stained with it too.
God, this is not good at all. Why would he be in here like this, all beaten up and bloody? Who is he?
We both rush over to him, and while Peyton tries to ascertain whether he’s alive or not—he is, she says—I tackle his tied hands. It’s a tight and intricate knot, one that Arsen would use to bind me, and my heart jumps in my throat. That doesn’t mean anything, right? Lots of people can tie a rope the same way. I mean, there are only so many knots in the world that you can do.
Oh God.
Okay, I need to focus. While I’m tugging and pulling at the knot, Peyton is shaking him and tapping his cheek to wake him up. Just as I’m successful in untying the rope, he grunts. His shoulders move and his tilted head straightens up.
“Oh my God,” Peyton exclaims, still bent over him. “Are you okay?”
He groans again, and just as I’m rounding to the front, his eyes blink open and I ask, “Can you hear us?”
Now that I’m not distracted by other things, I notice that his face is all banged up. One of his eyes is swollen shut, and there are bruises and cuts all over his face. What happened to him? His one good eye slowly finds focus and he stares at us, one by one, as Peyton says, “You’re fine, all right. You’re gonna be okay. We’re going to help you.”