Series: Webs We Weave Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 635(@200wpm)___ 508(@250wpm)___ 423(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 635(@200wpm)___ 508(@250wpm)___ 423(@300wpm)
She touches the back of my head and whispers, “I know . . . I know I can’t force you to quit for good. But I tried . . . I had to try.”
“I know,” I breathe.
I know.
“It’s up to you what you want to do next, Phebs. It’s your choice.”
My choice.
Hailey’s not the one grounding us here anymore. She never has been. It’s always been about me and that night in Carlsbad.
Thirty-Five
Rocky
Phoebe says she needs to think on everything and hightails it back to the loft. I see the panicky look in my sister’s eyes.
“Go with her,” she pleads.
I’m not sure I’ll make things better. I’m still shell-shocked from my sister’s confession. I’ve known the depth of which Hailey and Phoebe love each other, but I never considered the lengths Hailey would go to protect Phoebe. I figured she knew that I would be there for her friend. That she could rely on me, instead.
You two don’t have a patent on protecting people. She was speaking to me, too.
“Why won’t you tell me what happened?” I ask Hailey. “I would’ve—”
“I couldn’t. I couldn’t, Rocky.” She rubs her reddened nose, then picks up her sandy boots. “Please, just go.”
“You can’t just tell me about Carlsbad yourself?”
“She needs you.” Hailey nearly starts crying again. “Don’t leave her alone, please.”
I hate leaving either of them like this. “Call Nova or Oliver.”
She nods.
Right now, I don’t feel comforting. More like raw wire ready to slice open anything I touch. I want answers so badly that I could dig through hardened clay to reach them.
So maybe I need Phoebe more than she needs me in this moment. I unearth my heels from the sand and head to Phoebe’s loft, unlocking the door with my spare key.
Her bedroom door is ajar, and I push it further open.
She’s tucked in on her queen-sized bed, watching A Nightmare on Elm Street on the TV in the same jeans and sweater from the beach. She doesn’t acknowledge me.
I lean a shoulder against the doorway, eyes on the screen. “My sister was willing to quit her whole life, piss off our parents, and lie to us both.”
I turn to Phoebe.
She doesn’t take her gaze off the movie, but she hugs a white pillow to her chest, her jaw cementing in a struggle not to cry.
“And here I am thinking, what could have possibly happened to make her go to such lengths to protect you? What could have been so bad? You want to know what I’m thinking, Phoebe? Because in my head I’m painting real vivid pictures of that night.”
My pulse isn’t steady. I’m swallowing a mountain of emotion, and the only way not to burst at the seams is by concentrating on my breathing. On the fire that fills my lungs with every searing inhale, every anguished exhale.
Phoebe tosses her pillow aside and swings her legs off the bed. While she comes toward me, I shut the door. Trevor is on the couch in the living room, and I couldn’t see whether he was asleep or not.
As I walk deeper in her room, Phoebe meets me near the foot of the bed. She faces me with toughened eyes. But it’s a front. I see the pain simmering beneath. I can practically feel it tearing through me.
She asks, “You want the truth?”
“From you. Always.”
She takes a step closer, her chest rising and falling in heavy breaths. “The truth won’t solve anything. It’s going to hurt you, and the last thing I’ve ever wanted is to hurt you.”
Now I’m scared. I search her eyes for something more. “Did you kill someone?” I ask in a breathy whisper.
She shakes her head. “I wish I did.”
Jesus Christ.
I run a harsh hand through my hair, trying not to jump to any conclusions. “I need answers, Phoebe. I’m asking for them. I’m telling you to fucking hurt me. Because this . . . this is obliterating me.” I want to touch her. Hold her.
She swallows hard, her throat bobbing. “Rocky.” Her voice quakes.
I push closer, cupping her cheek in my hand. She hangs on to my wrists like we’re falling, and I breathe, “Hurt me.” I hear that movie playing in the background. “Do your worst, little nightmare.”
Her eyes flit to mine and they steel. “It was the Fiddle Game.” She tells me first what I know. The basics of the con.
Hailey played the role of a small-town girl living in California for the first time. Phoebe was her rich socialite friend who convinced her to fly out to the West Coast to pursue modeling. They both attended a party at a multimillion-dollar beach house with a hundred other guests.
Among them: Jeremy Leeds, CEO of Aquarius, one of the biggest fashion brands in the country. He was the mark.
“It started out fine,” Phoebe tells me, my palm on the nape of her neck. She’s clutching my forearm, and I wonder if she feels my pounding pulse like I feel hers. “I was just introducing Hailey, also known as Faye, to Jeremy and telling him that she’s new and getting her feet wet in the industry. Then she left for the bathroom, and she gave me her purse to hold on to. Her phone, wallet, everything inside.”