Series: Webs We Weave Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 167
Estimated words: 162520 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 813(@200wpm)___ 650(@250wpm)___ 542(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162520 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 813(@200wpm)___ 650(@250wpm)___ 542(@300wpm)
TWENTY-NINE
Rocky
When’s the last time I ran this fast? Was it carrying my wounded brother on Halloween? Was it racing toward a storm shelter where my sister was hallucinating?
Now it’s for Phoebe.
I want to say this is worse somehow. That the suffering of her is the suffering of me. But it’s all hell I’ve grown strong inside. This urgent, desperate feeling isn’t new to me. It’s been undying.
I run out of the side yard with Jake and Trevor, coming to the front of the estate. Trent Waterford paid off the security guards. They refused Jake’s direction to stay the night, and they’ve left their posts at the gate so anyone could get through.
Dozens of cars are parked in jagged, uneven, chaotic lines on the edge of the road leading to the mansion. My McLaren among them.
It’s not what I’m aiming for.
Nova’s olive-green 1969 Pontiac GTO is idling in the horseshoe driveway. He’s digging in the popped trunk while Hailey disappears into the driver’s seat.
The rear door is open. Oliver is bent inside the car, and I can only guess who he’s laying across the backseat.
My lungs are on fire when I reach Nova as he slams the trunk, a trauma bag slung on his shoulder. The glare he shoots me hits a deep nerve. I wasn’t careless about his sister; I’ve never been careless about Phoebe in my entire goddamn life.
I clench my jaw and pass him without a word. We say nothing because we’re trained to move and not air grievances when things go south.
It takes an ungodly amount of force not to immediately check on Phoebe. All I want is to hold her, be with her, tell her I’m here.
It’s a nail gun to my chest just to avoid the rear door and reach the driver’s side.
“Get out,” I tell Hailey.
“I can drive—”
“It’s not that.” As she climbs out, I draw her several feet away from the Pontiac. She’s shaking. I can’t make sense of why she’s trembling or gathering the sleeves of her mesh shirt in her fists. I can tell it’s not from anxiety, but the origins are lost on me.
I’m not the person who can comfort her right now. As much as I want that for my sister, it’s not going to be me. In this moment, I’m shrapnel. “I need you to be honest with me,” I say quickly. “Hailey.”
She lifts her gray eyes to mine. They’re bloodshot and puffy. She’s been crying.
My ribs constrict. “When I ask you something, you need to tell me the truth and fast—for Phoebe, for her health.” I’m ninety-nine percent sure I know the answer to the question, but I have to ask anyway. I have to be sure.
Hailey looks sick.
I drop my voice. “Is she pregnant?”
“No.” She maintains steady eye contact with me. “But I am.”
I nod. “I know,” I whisper, the magnitude of this trying to combust inside of me.
“You know?” Her eyes well, and she glances toward the car.
“No one told me. I figured it out.”
Her nose flares, but she manages to nod back. She swipes at her eyes to stop tears from falling. “Phoebe,” she chokes out before I can react. “Go to Phoebe.”
I’m being ripped in two directions, and my skull is throbbing as I rush back to the Pontiac. The rear doors are open, both Graves brothers leaning inside the car.
I throw keys to my McLaren at Jake.
He catches them midair, then runs to Hailey as she crumples against the tire, burying her face in her palms.
“Move,” I tell Oliver on the rear passenger side. He shifts out of the way, letting me through. I see the way he glances over the car. I see the way he searches for my sister, but I don’t linger on it.
Because I just want to be with her.
Phoebe.
Phoebe.
Anger and something deeper amass like an abyss inside my chest.
She’s unconscious on the leather bench seat. Her head nearest me. Her feet near Nova. I examine her so rapidly. Her white dress isn’t ripped or torn. No dirt or bloodstains. Just sand on her toes. Her arm hangs limp over the seat. Her blue hair conceals her face, and I push the strands aside and cradle her head. I inspect her cheeks, her lips.
My pulse won’t stop accelerating.
Nova is bent over his sister and unspooling the tubes for an IV drip. His glare hits me more than once.
“I didn’t fucking lose her,” I say roughly, climbing into the backseat and lifting Phoebe onto my lap. I have her.
I have her.
I’m not letting her out of my sight.
“You didn’t find her either,” Nova retorts, then eyes my mouth. I assume my lip is split from Trent landing a punch. I’m also soaking wet. “I hope it was worth it.”
“Fuck you,” I say weakly, my voice hoarse. Guilt is already killing me. He doesn’t need to twist the knife.