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)
I can’t stop like her.
It’s shocking she even can. I always believed this was ingrained in both of us. Part of me still does. Part of me hopes she’s not picking up a new boring book when we’ve been on the same page, the same thrilling story, our whole lives together.
It’s hard though, because I really, really just want Phebs to be happy. It does something to me, seeing the edges of her scowl soften by millimeter by centimeter by inch.
I look over at her now as she smiles around at the parked cars and families milling across the sidewalks. Drinking slushies. Ordering hot dogs from a little pop-up cart. Laughing, chatting, lost in the mundane ordinary.
She grins wider at Chelsea Noknoi, a fellow VCC server, who cuddles on the fountain’s stone ledge with her fiancé, sharing embarrassingly chaste kisses.
My face contorts in a cringe. “They’re pecking like birds.”
“Romance Scrooge.”
“That’s not a thing.” I sweep her smitten features. “You love it here.”
Her smile goes gentle. “It surprises me how much I do,” she admits, breathing deeply, and I don’t want to say Jake is right—that maybe there is summer magic in Victoria. But it’s hard to discount when Phebs looks so at peace in this second. In ways I’ve rarely seen.
“What do you love about it?” I ask.
“The normalcy, I guess.” Her eyes meet mine as we walk. “It’s almost exactly what Hails wanted for me when we moved here. A life with no danger zones. Which I guess ends tomorrow when we board Varrick’s yacht.”
We’re less than twenty-four hours away from spending the summer with a murderer. Fun.
She shifts closer to me to speak quietly. “It feels like the start of a job,” she says.
“Because it is one.” We share a strong look, and I nod at her, silently telling her we’re in this together. Like we’ve always been.
“I always like the in-between,” she says. “The before and the after of a job.”
“I can’t say I’ve enjoyed anything other than being with all of you,” I admit. “Sad?”
“Loser material. You need to hand me back the W.”
“You’ll have to fight me for it with your dinky little biceps.” I lift her slender arm as proof.
She pumps her muscles to prove me wrong at the same time that I pinch her waist, tickling her. She squeals and laughs, trying poorly to maintain a scowl. She pushes me lightly. Laughter rumbles out of my chest. Oxygen fills my lungs, and for a moment, we’re fifteen again, about to pack our bags for the next big city, and I’m falling in love with Phoebe for the first time.
Like clockwork, something repositions us into stoic stances. Impassive faces. This time, it’s her phone ringing.
She digs it out of her purse, flashing me the caller ID: Isla Rivers. Her mom’s alias. We slow our pace while she puts the phone on speaker. “Hi, Isla.”
Magical summer nights don’t exist.
If this were one, Phoebe would answer her mom’s call and the first thing Elizabeth would say is, Varrick is sobbing in a corner or Varrick just shit his pants. I don’t wish him dead. I want him to suffer.
More painfully than that, but at this point, I’d take a festering papercut to ruin his fucking day.
So, when Elizabeth opens the call with a casual “What are you up to?” I have the sudden urge to chuck the phone in the Atlantic.
“I’m in town,” Phoebe says. “Out with my ex-husband for a walk. We’re getting ice cream.” To me, she adds, “I’ll probably get salted caramel.” It’s a surface-level comment to indicate to her mom that we’re in public.
“Can we talk in private?”
“Yeah.” Phoebe checks left and right for a spot. I catch her hand and lead her to the only decently secluded place off the main street. A dark alley behind Gulp Seafood & Lounge. My narrowed eyes graze the cement where I once found my brother…stabbed and bleeding out on Halloween.
EDM songs boom from the bar, which’ll muffle our conversation from passersby. I face Phoebe while she tells her mom, “You’re on speaker, but we’re out of earshot.”
“Good.” Elizabeth expels a taut breath. The kind that would curb anxiety or stress. That’s unlike Elizabeth.
I stare hard at the phone. An uneasy feeling tightens my ribs.
“I don’t know how much communication we’ll have while you’re at Stonehaven,” she starts. “The Wi-Fi is spotty there.”
“On purpose?” I survey our surroundings casually while we talk.
“Uncertain. The mansion is surrounded by water, nowhere near a cell tower, but I’m sure he takes advantage of the fact.”
He could shut off the Wi-Fi and blame bad service—which will be a headache if we can’t communicate through our burner phones. But it’s not like we haven’t encountered these issues before.
“We won’t be trapped there,” I remind Elizabeth. “We’ll still be taking boat rides into town. Phoebe works at VCC. We’re essentially just spending nights and mornings at his residence.”