Cooper (The Family Simon #6) - Juliana Stone Page 0,6

anybody’s thing. I know it, so I wish you’d let it go.”

. She shook her head and turned toward the bathroom, feeling guilt and relief when she heard Sara move toward the door. It clicked open.

“Eventually, you have to start living again, Morgan.”

That anger inside her expanded, leaving her heart pounding. Out of it, something ugly grew, and she cocked her head to the side. “Living? That’s funny coming from you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re almost as screwed up as I am. But hey, if jumping in the sack with random men and throwing yourself at someone like Cooper Simon means you’re living, I guess you get a pass.”

Sara was silent for a few moments. “At least I’m doing something. At least I’m not hiding behind a wall of pain that will never go away. Not until it’s dealt with. The difference between you and me is that I know I’ll get there. Eventually.” Her voice lowered. “But you… I’m scared for you. If you’re not careful, you’re going to wither away to nothing. You’ll be skin and bone and scars and just…nothing.”

Morgan didn’t move. Not when the door closed and she knew her sister had left. Not when she heard Sara’s Suburban roar to life in the driveway. She stood in the silence of her room for a very, very long time, her mind whirling with memories. Her body paralyzed from bone-wrenching pain. With longing. With inconsolable sadness.

When she finally made it to the bathroom, she tossed her purple-and-yellow pajamas onto the ground and barely made it to the toilet before she vomited. And there she lay until eventually she fell asleep.

At twenty-seven, it was a great way to spend a Friday night.

3

By Wednesday morning, Cooper was willing to admit defeat, and that was something that didn’t come easy. Considering he’d done nothing but work out, play Mortal Kombat, surf the net, and do pretty much anything that didn’t involve sitting his butt in a chair and writing…well, it was inevitable. Hell, just the night before, he’d watched a documentary on the Son Doong cave system in Vietnam. It was an incredible documentary. An insightful documentary. But it was one he’d seen before, twice, actually, and still he’d put up his feet and settled in.

He needed a change of scenery. A reboot. Or something.

Cooper climbed the stairs to the old attic and reached for the door. The hinges were coated in rust, so they squeaked loudly, and it took a shove or two to get the damn thing open. He was immediately hit with an overwhelming musty odor, but he ignored it and stepped inside, coming to a standstill as he gazed around.

He’d forgotten how impressive the space up here was. Even considering the amount of clutter—the antiques, the boxes, and framed art. Sunlight streamed in from the overly large windows, two to his left and two to his right, making the dust shimmer, invoking a magical feel. The glass, however, was frosted and the air chilled, and Cooper frowned, thinking that he should have gotten them replaced when he’d done the rest of the house the summer before.

He took a few steps forward, his fingers trailing over a large frame cloaked in a heavy cover. He yanked the cloth aside and noted it was a painting—a beach scene complete with boats, seagulls, and the Atlantic Ocean. He moved farther into the room, then paused near a large trunk and a bunch of smaller boxes. He had no idea what they held and at the moment wasn’t interested in finding out. As far as he knew, most of the items up here belonged to the McLaren family, who’d sold the house to him at auction. The young man in charge, a distant relative from what Cooper knew, had no interest in any of the history up here, and so all these things sat.

He needed to fix this because he wanted the space for himself, but what to do with it all? He pondered the question for a few moments, eyes back on the exposed painting, and then he carefully covered it up. Cooper took one more look around, then headed downstairs, a plan in place. He grabbed his winter coat and a black knit hat before scooping his keys from the kitchen counter, and headed into the crisp New England air.

It was early afternoon by the time he made it to Fisherman’s Landing. He drove by his brother’s place, but no one answered the door when he