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)
Addison sets an uneaten oyster on her plate. “You can’t live your life with a monster—”
“It’s not me either,” she whispers, as if this is a fragile secret. “He’s not interested in me.”
Cold drips down my spine when her brown eyes veer over to mine. “He wants all six of you.”
My stomach drops out. “For what?”
“As we thought, he’s been observing you to see how well we raised you, but he’d prefer to have you all in his back pocket. He wants you to trust him more than you trust us. He might even attempt to sway you against us.”
Addison sends an apprehensive glance to my mom. My head spins, and Hailey digs her nose and mouth into her forearm before springing up.
Oh shit. She’s going to be sick. She shoos me not to follow, then rushes toward the bathroom. I wonder if the fishy smell from the oysters is upsetting her already queasy stomach. This pregnancy hasn’t been kind to her on the morning sickness front.
Addison swings her head toward the door. “Is Hailey ill?”
“We drank a lot of wine last night. I think the hangover mixed with oysters is getting to her,” I lie casually.
“Should I go check on her?” Addison asks, more to Elizabeth than me. It’s an odd question from someone so supremely confident in any role she takes. But I suppose the role of mother has been tarnished a bit. She doesn’t know exactly where she stands with Hails.
“I’ll text her,” I offer, sending Hailey a quick message on my burner: You okay?
Her response is almost instant:
“Assumptions confirmed.” I slip my phone away. “It’s the hangover.” I thread my arms over my chest and drop my voice so only they can hear. “So…if he’d prefer to use us in the art of confidence games, then why hasn’t he said boo to me? Seems like he’s done a pretty shitty job convincing us to be a part of his one-man team.”
Slowly, Elizabeth reaches into her Birkin and pulls out six envelopes. She hands me the stack, Rocky’s alias written in cursive on the top one.
Grey Thornhall
Elizabeth never blinks as she says, “That’s about to change.”
FIVE
Jake
I fold an envelope. My name is scrawled in black ink over the letterhead: Jake Koning Waterford. No return address. I slip it in the back pocket of my navy-blue slacks after hanging up the phone.
I called Hailey the second I found the envelope underneath my Porsche’s windshield wiper. It’s definitely not good how often she circles my thoughts, not good that my first instinct was to reach out to her—not good that I’m headed to her now.
Most of my life, I’ve been revolting.
Pushing against expectations set before birth. Probably before I was even conceived, my mother had an idea of who she wanted her thirdborn son to be, and I’m pretty positive I was only half of what she desired.
Athletic, perfect. Studious, even better. Proper, outstanding.
Questioning…unacceptable. Challenging, we can’t have that. Rebellious, he must go.
With no peep from my weak-willed father, I was sent to boarding school for most of my youth. Because she hated that I called her out for being every fucking thing I didn’t want my mother to be.
Vindictive. Petty. Cruel. Her high standards could never be reached by most staff. She went through valets, assistants, chefs, and housekeepers like seasonal decorations. Discarding them as if they were the wrong type of ribbon and garland for the year. She only ever remembered the names of the nanny and butler. They were the only ones she’d bother to keep around for decades, a way to tell herself she was so loyal, so giving.
It was bullshit.
I told her exactly what I felt each time she canned household staff, like Chef Lydia, who’d just returned from maternity leave after giving birth to twins.
“She looks so different…” Mom crinkled her nose in distaste, then waved her hand. “She’s better off elsewhere. She’ll have more time to take care of herself.”
I let out a tight, irate laugh. “She just gave birth. Not that her appearance should even matter.”
“Jacob, please. Not today.”
She loved my oldest brother because he never held a mirror to her face. Trent was Claudia…is Claudia in so many terrible ways. It’s been two weeks since she died, and I keep wishing he’d join her.
I keep thinking, What the fuck is wrong with me? That I want my own brother to die. I never considered that I could be someone who’d put a hit on their own family. Screw them over to protect others? Yeah, I tried to do that—I’m still trying. Kill them…no.
I don’t want this dark desire to exist anywhere but in my head.
This year, everything has felt like love or death.
Fitting earbuds in my ears, I play music off Hailey’s iPod Nano and leave my Porsche parallel parked on Main Street. She loaned me the Nano after I asked about what music she likes. The bands she listed off sounded fake.