Cruel Paradise (Beautifully Cruel Book 2) by J.T. Geissinger

Author:J.T. Geissinger [Geissinger, J.T.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: J.T. Geissinger, Inc.
Published: 2020-10-01T00:00:00+00:00

18

Jules

Deciding I won’t be of any use to him in my current state, Hank tells me to take the day off. He suggests I take a drive out to the country to clear my head.

He also tells me to call a therapist as soon as I can, but I know it’s not more talking I need. I need to do something.

Only I have no idea what that something is.

The first place I stop after I leave work is my bank. I rent a safety deposit box and leave the necklace in it. I’ll get an estimate of its value later on, after I can think straight again. I know nothing about diamonds, only that the bigger and brighter they are, the more they cost, so Killian’s present will probably bring a hefty chunk of change when I sell it.

I haven’t decided yet if I’ll give the money to charity or light it all on fire and watch it burn.

I make another stop at a convenience store to buy bottled water and fill up on gas, then hit the highway and start driving. I don’t have a destination in mind, but it feels good to go fast, look in the rearview mirror, and not see any big black SUVs following behind me.

It feels good for all of one minute, until I see a plane flying overhead and realize that’s not the only way Killian could follow me.

The man seems to have eyes everywhere, including the sky.

“Stupid satellites,” I mutter, pulling into the parking garage of a mall.

I park in the middle of a crowded row of cars, head inside, and hunt for a payphone. I find one near the restrooms and call a taxi for a ride. When the cab arrives, I slouch down in the back seat and tell the driver to take me somewhere pretty.

“Manchester-by-the-Sea,” he says instantly. “Pretty beach. Pretty marina. Pretty everything. Only a forty-minute drive.”

“Let’s go.”

On the way, I force myself to do everything but think about Killian.

I count the number of red cars I see. I count the number of churches we pass. I try to remember all the lyrics to “Let It Be,” by the Beatles, my mother’s favorite song. I engage the driver in Twenty Questions, grilling him about where he’s from, how he likes Boston, and what he thinks of the President.

Then I sit back and listen to him rant with only enough attention to insert a polite “Mmm” and “uh-huh” here and there.

By the time we arrive at our destination, I need a drink. Not thinking about someone is a surprisingly hard amount of work.

It’s too early to hit a bar, so I spend a few hours wandering around the marina and its charming little shops until it’s time for lunch. Starving, I shovel food into my mouth like a farm animal. I drink two pints of cold beer. Afterward, I feel much better. More clear-headed. It’s probably only the sea air, but I’ll take it.

I decide I like the place so much, I want to stay longer.

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