Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
We hired a new cleaning company, and I think they’re moving shit despite me telling them not to. When I reach all the way back in the bottom drawer, my hand latches on to a bunch of papers. I yank them out, and when my eyes land on a certain drawing, I drop it like it’s on fire.
“Did you find it?” Dad asks.
“No,” I whisper, staring at the paper I thought I had thrown out.
“Kins?” Dad says. “What’s—”
His words come to a halt when his gaze lands on the picture.
“Oh shit,” he whispers.
“I thought it was gone.” Carefully, I take it from the pile. “I can’t believe it’s been two years since I lost her.” I run my finger along the lines of her heartbeat.
Brandon was supposed to tattoo it on me after I gave birth to celebrate us welcoming our little girl into the world. Only there was no celebration or welcoming. Just the doctors taking my stillborn baby out via cesarean while my husband died on the surgical table in another part of the hospital.
I have nothing left of her but this picture I drew of her name and heartbeat. And for the longest time, I couldn’t imagine getting it inked onto my body. But now, staring at it, knowing it’s all I have of her …
“Hey, Dad,” I say, glancing up at him. “Will you tattoo this on me?”
Dad’s eyes widen. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “I want a part of her on me forever.”
“Her name was Brenna,” I say to Shane even though he can read it himself. “And I killed her before she even had a chance to live.”
EIGHT
Shane
I stare at Kinsley, unsure of what to say, wondering how the hell we went from me reminiscing about my daughter to this …
Fuck, what is this?
She killed her daughter? That doesn’t make any sense. If that were true, she wouldn’t be standing here with me. She’d be in jail, right?
“Kinsley,” I say, standing so we’re back to being eye level.
Tears are streaming down her cheeks as she continues to hold her shirt up, exposing the tattoo she was showing me.
“I find it hard to believe you’re a murderer, so can you explain what you mean?”
Kinsley sniffles back a sob and closes her eyes, forcing the liquid emotion to slide down her face. When she opens her eyes, I’m met with such devastation that my heart clenches in my chest for her.
“It doesn’t matter,” she mutters. “All you need to know is that being around me would be hazardous to your health.”
“Your parents and cousin seem to be doing just fine,” I point out.
“That’s because I keep them at a distance,” she admits, breaking my heart. “I learned the hard way that it’s too easy to lose the people we love.”
“And who else have you lost besides your daughter?” I ask, getting the feeling there’s way more to this story than meets the eye.
“I don’t want to talk about this,” she says, lowering her shirt as she raises the wall that she temporarily lowered to let me in.
She applies ointment to my tattoo and then covers it up. “These are the aftercare instructions. If you have any questions, you can call the number on here.”
Without giving me a chance to get a word in, she walks me to the front, lets Scott know I’m done, and then disappears back into her room, closing the door on the outside world.
“How’d it go?” Scott asks, obviously sensing the tension.
“It went well,” I say, not giving anything away. “Kinsley is very talented and has convinced me to get a sleeve done, so I need to book another appointment for next week.”
Scott’s eyes widen, and then he barks out a laugh. “She convinced you, huh?” He nods to himself. “Yeah, okay.”
After letting him know which days I work next week, we make an appointment, and then I take off, hating that I’ll have to wait an entire week to see Kinsley again, but telling myself that I just need to be patient. Based on the way she reacted to her own admission, I’m guessing she doesn’t open up to many people.
But she opened up to me.
“Hey, Dad!” Taylor yells from the kitchen when I walk through the door.
“Hey, kiddo. What are you doing home?”
“Half day. Came home to eat lunch, and then I’ve got cheer practice and then work.” Her gaze zeroes in on the plastic wrap, and she gasps. “Oh my God! Did you actually go through with it? Did you get a tattoo?”
“I did.”
“Well, let me see!”
She drops the sandwich she was making and walks over to me.
“It has to stay covered, but this is what it looks like.” I pull out my phone and show her the picture I took of it when I was at the shop.
“Dad,” she breathes, her hands going to her mouth. “That’s … my picture that I drew for you.”