Series: Webs We Weave Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 145038 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 725(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 483(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145038 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 725(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 483(@300wpm)
“Happy early birthday to me.” I raise and lower my brows.
Phoebe is ten times more content with the knowledge that Trent is likely in a sleeping-pill-induced haze, counting sheep. Except, she’s awake now, like she drank a 5-hour Energy.
“These are cool.” Phoebe plucks a porcelain, blonde baby doll off the display shelf.
“Says the horror freak.” I lounge against the headboard. Buck naked. It’s too hot in the room to dive under the sheets.
“You love this horror freak,” she slings back.
I grin, then I reach over and search the nightstand drawer. “No loose baby heads in here.”
“Shucks.” She climbs onto the bed with the doll.
“Really?” I ask her, finding a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.
“She’s precious.”
“She’s not sleeping with us.”
“She’s not real,” Phoebe combats. “What weird superstition do you have against baby dolls?”
“It’s creepy,” I mumble, the cigarette between my lips. I light it, suck, and blow smoke away from Phoebe. “You’re lucky I fucked you in front of it.”
She smiles a little wider and then she eyes the cigarette. “You want me to crack a window?” she asks, snuggling beside me with the doll.
“If the walls smell like smoke, are you going to care?”
“Definitely not.”
“Me either.” The nicotine buzz vibrates my head, and I feel her body loosen against my chest. I wrap an arm around her shoulders and kiss her temple.
“You like smoking?” she wonders. “I thought you always just did it to assimilate.”
“I do, but I like a cigarette after sex.”
“Why?”
“Sex makes me relax, and cigarettes don’t.” While we’re in this house, the last thing I want to do is lower my guard. I’m just happy to have Phoebe snuggled contentedly in my arms. One less worry gnawing at my brain.
My phone rings. On the other side of the room, at the dresser. I groan. There goes having her in my arms. Naked, I untangle from her.
“It might be Jake,” Phoebe guesses. “He was really concerned before dinner.”
“Yeah.” I breathe out more smoke. Jake’s been stressing about his mom’s buttons being pushed. He knows Phoebe can “take it,” but he still doesn’t want to see her get hurt.
When I pick up my phone, my muscles tighten. No caller ID, and I don’t recognize the number. I put it on speaker immediately. “Who is this?” I question, half expecting Varrick to have somehow tracked down my number.
“It’s me.” Oliver sounds out of breath, like he’s moving a mile a minute somewhere—like he’s running. I hear the howling wind. I hear his fear as the words pull from his soul: “ ‘We loved with a love that was more than love.’ ”
It’s our SOS phrase.
“Where?” I ask.
“Koning storm shelter. Hailey.”
I hear a feminine blood-curdling scream before the line cuts out. My brain is lit up in panic. Phoebe is already jumping off the bed.
The last time any of us used that phrase, my brother had been stabbed. And he was bleeding to death.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Phoebe
The estate is asleep. Groundskeepers in bed. Housekeepers nowhere to be seen. Without pause, without conversation, Rocky and I race toward Jake’s room on the softest parts of our feet. Silent, urgent thuds against floorboards as we sprint to him. He answers the door, pulling on cotton joggers over his boxer briefs.
“It’s Hailey,” I say.
He doesn’t waste time grabbing a jacket. Rocky is only in drawstring pants, and I doubt any of us care if we freeze to death trying to find her. Jake guides us out, only stopping in a hallway to snag a flashlight from a utility closet.
The three of us hightail it into the dark night together.
“To the right,” Jake instructs, pointing the flashlight into the foggy scattering of oak trees. Clouds hang low, and I can’t see much except the stone siding of the mansion and several mammoth trunks. Old, old trees. Old, old land.
A person who can navigate this property with a blindfold is with us. It offers a tinge of comfort. Still, my pulse hasn’t slowed. It’s hard to talk with the lump lodged in my throat.
At least it’s the first week of April. At least it’s not bone-chillingly cold.
Our breaths aren’t frosting the air. Adrenaline warms me head to toe, and I welcome the slap of wind on my cheeks.
The storm shelter is apparently a good half a mile from the main house, which means we’re all in a swift run.
I can’t keep up with Rocky’s and Jake’s long legs. I’m several paces behind them, but Rocky checks over his shoulder, ensuring I’m here.
Jake checks next.
I’m here.
“Just go ahead,” I call out. “I’ll catch up!”
They aren’t going to leave me behind.
Hot, angry tears prick my eyes. She doesn’t have time! She could be dying! “Just go!” I scream, fear scraping against my lungs. Why are they like this?! “GO!”
They pick up speed, and the beam of light bounces with Jake’s hurried, aggressive footfalls. They’re running like the horn blew and they’re in a one-hundred-meter dash for gold. Side by side, unrelenting, untiring strides forward.