Page 64 of Not Your Little Girl Anymore

A buzz on the door bounces off the walls, and the whistling picks up again. The light turns off, and I listen carefully as the man travels further and further away until I hear nothing but the sound of my penetrating heart.

As soon as I hear the soft click of the door, my lungs expand as I suck in as much air as I possibly can to ensure I’m still alive. Then, I scramble myself out from under the table.

Wiping the sweat off my forehead with my arm, I swiftly retreat into the hallway, making sure to grab the broom from the corner of the confidential room before I leave.

Looking both ways to make sure the coast is clear, I mimic the same route I did when I came inside, using one end of the broom to retrieve my hat as carefully as possible without setting off any alarms.

My hat drops onto the floor. I grab it and rest the broom gently in the corner. Then, I dodge my way back up the stairs and outside.

The doors close, and I lean against the building, my breathing coming in short gasps. After a few short seconds of deep breaths, I toss the keycard as far as I can toward the front of the police station, just like we agreed on, and get back in the car.

Unable to control the laughter that escapes my lungs, I look at the file in my hands and smile.

Chapter Twenty-five

Summer

“You’ve been staring at that file for over an hour.”

I look at Alec from across the counter, a small piece of dark hair dipping down his forehead. His eyes pierce through me with intensity. I shove away the feeling growing between my legs, bouncing my foot on the kitchen floor. My fingers grip the edge of the counter tight. I can almost feel my nails splintering.

“Has it really been that long?” I look back down at the manilla folder. My mother’s name penetrates my eyes, and my throat grows dry, clogging my airway with something I don’t want there.

Fear.

I’m not afraid of physically seeing what was done to my mother. Most of that information was on the news, even if a lot of it was blurred. It’s what I’m about to find out that scares the ever-living hell out of me.

I was looking forward to this moment. Opening this file and studying it until I had an idea or lead to who was behind my mother’s murder. It’s supposed to add a layer of peace, but as I stare down at this folder, all my insides want to do is bury themselves deeper.

Alec slowly moves around the counter, pinching my chin with his thumb and index finger, and forces it up. I stare into his glossy gray eyes, lost in thought, until his mouth parts to speak.

“Pretty girl, whatever is in that file. Whatever information you find. It’s a step closer to finding solitude. I’m right here with you. I’m not going anywhere. We’ll do this together, yeah?”

My eyes fall to his lips as the words come out so soothingly. His voice brings me comfort and bliss. My eyelashes flutter as I nod my head.

“Yeah. OK. Yeah.” My voice sounds a lot more confident than I feel. I feel like I’m a broken train track just waiting for destruction.

Curling and uncurling my fingers into fists, I reach for the edge of the folder. It’s thick under my fingertips, the weight matching the fear in my chest.

I close my eyes and suck in a breath, flipping the folder open as I exhale. When my eyes open, it takes me a few minutes to look over everything on the first page. My heart sinks further as I read about my mother.

The dirty blond color of her hair. It was much darker than my own. Her eyes—the perfect shade of green with golden flecks. Everything about her, all the way down to her husband and daughter.

I turn the page, reading the top letters in black, bold ink.

Police Report.

Turning my head and gasping for air, I cling onto Alec’s shirt, smothering my face into his chest. He holds me, rubbing gentle circles along my spine.

“Take your time, Sunshine.”

I breathe him in, finding comfort in his delicious scent. His phone vibrates in his pocket, reverberating against my thigh where my leg pushes against his. He moves an arm down, silencing it through the material of his jeans.

It’s the fourth call he’s ignored since we returned to his apartment.

“You really should answer that. It seems important.”

“It’s not.” He rests his chin against the top of my head, but the way he says that makes me feel like he’s avoiding whoever is calling for a reason.

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