Total pages in book: 185
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
Swallowing, I answer, “In the carriage house. Right across from… your mansion. Are you…”
“Am I what?”
I watch him move further and further away, his arm still in the grip of the man. And it’s a strong grip too. It must be hurting him. It has to be.
“Going to be okay?” I ask, worried.
A lopsided smile stretches his lips. Then, ignoring my question, he asks one of his own. “How old are you?”
“T-twelve.”
I don’t get to see what passes over his features at my reply though. Because he’s almost at the end, the corner of the woods and the backyard, too far away for me to see anything, but I do think that I hear a muttered curse.
Then, “Well, happy birthday, Echo.”
Those are his last words before he disappears.
And I stand here, staring at the spot where he was only a second ago.
Hearing my name echo — like its namesake — in his voice, through the woods.
And in my heart.
CHAPTER TWO
Five years ago. Bardstown
Sometimes I still hear it.
My name in his voice, echoing around the woods.
I know it’s crazy and I know it’s been a year since that night but still.
It’s even crazier when you think about the fact that he doesn’t even live here, at the manor, in Bardstown. He lives in Connecticut, at a posh boarding school.
Rumor has it that it was a way for his parents to wash their hands of him.
Rumor also has it that there are a million rumors about him.
About the second son of the Davidsons.
The bad son, the rebel son.
The son who has brought them nothing but trouble for as long as anyone on the Davidson staff can remember. And they remember a lot.
Like the time when he was arrested at the age of twelve for vandalizing his school, which is when they sent him off to that boarding school. He was then suspended from said boarding school for getting caught selling the final exam before finals; they had to make a large donation to the school to keep his place.
Then there was a time, even before this, when he stole his dad’s new car — he was eleven, they say — and took it on a joyride around town. Until the cops caught up to him, somewhere out in the neighboring town of Wuthering Garden, parked in a grocery store parking lot, where he’d paid someone to buy him beer.
And this is just scratching the surface.
There isn’t a rule he’s not broken or crime/misdemeanor he hasn’t committed.
You name it and he’s done it.
Meanwhile, the Davidsons’ older son, Homer Davidson, is the epitome of good behavior. He’s an obedient son and a brilliant young businessman, every inch the heir of the Davidson dynasty.
It was easy to find it all out, all the rumors, the stories, the anecdotes.
People talk about him a lot around here, the cooking staff, the cleaning staff, the chauffeurs, the groundkeepers, the guards and so on. They talk about how unfortunate it is that the Davidsons have a son that’s always hell bent on bringing shame to their name, how unfair it is for the Davidsons because they’ve done nothing to deserve it.
Howard Davidson is a good employer. A respected citizen and businessman, generous and kind. And I guess I can attest to that firsthand; Mr. Davidson gave my parents jobs when they most needed them. Gave us a place to stay, helped us move and so on.
But that’s not the point.
The point is that I too have a story about him.
An anecdote.
About how I met him on the night of my twelfth birthday and he set the sky on fire. How he turned night into day.
But I haven’t told anyone about it.
Because I don’t indulge in gossip or judgement. But mostly because he hasn’t told anyone about it either.
About how I lied to him.
How I spun stories the night we met.
I’ve wondered about that, actually.
Once the shock of the night wore off, the enormity of what I had done set in. The wickedness, the awfulness, the horror and depravity of my lie had started to sink in.
And I got so worried.
I kept waiting and waiting for my parents to call me downstairs from my room and ask me about the bad thing that I’d done. About sneaking out and wandering in the woods at midnight. About the lie that I’d told and how that lie had gotten them fired.
I essentially pretended to be the daughter of the king when in reality, I’m the daughter of the king’s groundskeeper and the cook, didn’t I? Of course they would’ve gotten fired for it.
And oh my God, that would’ve been such a disaster.
Especially given my dad’s condition. He used to work construction back in Brooklyn, but an accident made it so that he can’t work long hours anymore. Meaning he not only got fired – on a mere technicality to justify it – but also couldn’t find a job for the longest time. So my mom had to work two different jobs to pick up the slack.