Reading books romantic stories you will plunge into the world of feelings and love. Most of the time the story ends happily. Very interesting and informative to read books historical romance novels to feel the atmosphere of that time.Famished by Meghan O'Flynn (most popular novels txt) đ
- Author: Meghan O'Flynn
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If not the girls, then who? The kid? His killer had found the women repugnant; had to in order to tear them apart like that. And from what Petrosky had seen, the killer wasnât sorry, either. There had been no tears to drown the wind. A tourniquet ringed his abdomen, squeezing bile into his throat.
Itâs not a confession.
Itâs a warning.
The hotel ballroom teemed with three hundred or so local engineers already under the umbrella of Harwick Technical Solutions. They milled around like sheep, jostling one another to get to the hors dâoeuvres. And the drinks. Dominic eyed them disapprovingly, but never long enough for them to notice.
A few came up to shake the hands of the other managers. The more daring employees approached him as well and were rewarded for their temerity with a handshake and a broad smile that was convincing enough. Theyâd not recognize his disdain, not while they were half-drunk and clambering for his approval. They were all broken, troubled, sick, each with something to prove. And the right level of disturbance paired with the right job ensured he would spend his days watching his bottom line climb ever higher, even as his workers cried themselves to sleep or fucked little kids or beat their wives or sliced through their own skin with razor blades. Some of them were even likeâŠhim.
And numbers never lied.
He listened to snippets of conversations as he walked to the bar.
âDid you hear about Jim? I met him at a quality control meeting last yearââ
âYeah, that was crazy. He looked totally normal in his pictureââ
Dominic ordered a sparkling water and scanned the room.
Jim had seemed totally normal, but guys like that never changed. Dominic had counted on that when he sought the man out. If Jim had suddenly done a one-eighty, it would have been a statistical anomaly. Dominic had put his money on the math. And on the tracking chip heâd installed on JimâsâRobertâsâcar.
He took his drink.
âDid you hear that wasnât even his real name?â
âI heard he changed it before he sent in his resumeââ
The game had been fun while it had lasted. But there would always be time for another round as long as he examined the opportunities around him. Stayed one step ahead of the rest. His father had shown him that muchâthat, and how a dismally boring existence could be transformed the first time you held someoneâs still pulsing organs in your hand.
As Dominic walked back to his table, the sea of people parted for him. A man wearing a dark blue suit jacket and a hopeful expression sidled up to him. Dominic forced himself to look pleased.
Idiots. He shook the manâs hand. Fucking Oysters.
Something molten scorched my insides, the flick of a lighter before the flame. On the table next to me, the English muffin had long since grown cold. I reached for it blindly, registering the clatter of the plate on wood, but it seemed far away. The book sat open on my lap, the page invisible despite how hard I stared at it.
It isnât possible.
The book closed in slow motion as if my hand was disconnected from my body. Then the bookcase was before me, the book sliding into its place, though I didnât remember getting up.
Books. So many books.
Anyone could have that book. Itâs just a coincidence.
I took the plate to the sink, scrubbed it with shaking hands, and turned to the dishwasher. The plate slipped and shattered against the marble floor.
The broom. The sweeping. Donât think. I took slow, deliberate breaths into quivering lungs. My chest hurt.
This is ridiculous. Talk about an overreaction.
Itâs okay. Just go read something else.
Yeah, something not connected to a series of violent killings.
Stop it, Hannah.
I dumped the glass shards in the trash. The kitchen was alive, pulsing in time to my heart. My legs wobbled, and I grabbed the counter. I really was crazy.
I staggered into the living room over white marble that suddenly seemed cold and rude and indignant. Itâs just a floor, Hannah. The nearly invisible seam up on the ceiling watched me, waiting to distract me with the hidden television.
I need to rest. Just rest.
I awoke to a high-pitched voice talking about a flood in Indonesia. The last thing I remembered, I had been watching some game show.
I pushed myself upright and brushed matted hair from my face.
Note to self: No sleeping on leather.
Why do I feel so strange?
On the screen, a swirling torrent of water crashed into the side of a building, obliterating the foundation and washing it out to sea. The scene shifted to a woman in a newsroom saying something about requests for aid.
There are plenty of people far worse off than you.
Yeah, because nothing is wrong with your life.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
One little coincidence and I almost lost my shit.
âIn breaking news,â the woman said, âNew information has been released on the man responsible for seven deaths in or near the Metro Detroit area. His violent killing spree began on October first with the murder of a prostitute in Ash Park and culminated on November twenty-sixth when another woman and her young child were found brutally murdered in an abandoned school.â
November twenty-sixthâŠ
âChannel Eight is here on the scene where sources say that Robert Fredricks died earlier this afternoonââ
I put my hands over my ears, but the thoughts kept coming. I grabbed my phone off the coffee table and pulled up my web browser.
Donât do this again.
October first, November twenty-sixthâŠ
I punched in keywords until I found what I was looking for. Dread bloomed in my abdomen. I ran to my purse and yanked out my journal, flipping through scribbled sleeping notes. Here, I slept. There, I didnât.
A coincidence, just a coincidence.
My sleep hadnât changed until I had moved in here. I ran a shaking finger down the pages.
I slept better when other people were dying, and in the days leading up to those times.
Gotta have time to case a victim.
Stop it, Hannah. Youâre just a little tired today.
Does that mean someone else is dead?
It didnât even make sense. How do you get someone to sleep on demand?
You hold their hand and bring them orange juice. Or make them dinner.
But that would mean heâŠwhat? Drugged me?
No. No way. I dropped the journal and put away my phone.
Youâre crazy, Hannah.
But I couldnât stop thinking, couldnât stop moving. What if I was wrong? I had been wrong about Jake. Maybe I was wrong aboutâŠeverything.
My feet flew through the living room and up the stairs, independent of coherent thought. In the bathroom, I tore through the medicine cabinet like a possessed raccoon, tossing bottles and scattering toothpicks, cotton balls, gauze.
Nothing.
I snatched at the drawers underneath the sink and rummaged through the linen closet. In the bedroom, I searched under the mattress, behind the bedposts, around the night tables.
My heart slowed.
This is crazy. Youâre crazy. It has to be a coincidence.
But it wasnât. I knew it in my core, somewhere unmentionable and primitive, just as I had known my love for my father was wrong. A nest of weasels in my chest scampered into my brain, into my lungs, until their clawing feet were all I could hear, feel, sense.
Then his voice. Just donât clean my man cave.
I ran. The bright light of the workout room assaulted my eyes. I wrenched open the closet door. Bleach, towels, rags, buckets. The buckets were empty. Towels flew over my shoulder, cleaning rags ripped from their resting place. Dull thuds,
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