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)
“For Phoebe,” Elizabeth explains, thumbing the locket at her neck again. “We wanted you two to grow up as friends…like Addison and I did.”
“And look at you two now,” Addison says.
Phoebe fights tears and hurt. “So you took Hailey for me?”
“Adopted, bug,” Elizabeth emphasizes.
“W-where was I born?” Hailey asks.
“Chicago.” Addison’s gaze softens. “Whatever you want to know. Any details. I’ll give them to you whenever you ask.”
Hailey is drifting a little. “You’re forgetting to tell us something. There’s something you’re forgetting. Or maybe you just don’t want them to know. Maybe you’ll always say you forgot. When we know. I know.”
“What’s she talking about?” I ask them. The feeling I had earlier with Everett—it creeps up again. “It’s about Varrick?”
Elizabeth is woozy. She’s on her knees. Staring at the line I drew in the dirt. “When Addy, Everett, and I left Victoria with the baby—with Brayden…I didn’t know at the time…I didn’t realize it.”
“Realize what?” I ask.
“I was pregnant. With the triplets.” She dabs at her wet eyes, but her makeup is already smeared across her cheeks. “We didn’t want to return to Connecticut because Varrick never knew the truth.”
“And what is the truth?”
Elizabeth tries to say it, but the words catch. So Addison finishes, “That Nova, Oliver, and Phoebe are his children.”
You could hear a pin drop.
Until Nova growls out, “He’s our father?”
“No way,” Phoebe mutters, catching my gaze with wide, terrified eyes. This entire fucking time, I thought he was my dad. I smear a hand down my face. I don’t want him to be hers—probably more than I didn’t want him to be mine.
“But Mattias,” Oliver names their supposed dad.
“He’s a friend who went to prison for fraud,” Elizabeth says. “I wish…I wish he were your real father.”
“Does Varrick know about the triplets now?” I ask her.
“Yes. He believes they’re his kids. He figured it out while you’ve been here. He wanted me to come to Connecticut. To live with him at Stonehaven, but I won’t…I won’t.”
Nova is fuming. He’s pacing at the bottom of the stairs, so he doesn’t see the movement at the opened doors.
My pulse pitches up, and I explode forward. “Trevor!”
My little brother climbs down the steps, the hood to his peacoat over his head.
“Where the fuck have you been?”
Trevor barely assesses the storm shelter or anyone in it. He takes measured breaths, his face flat. Void. He only looks at me. “We have thirty minutes to leave the Koning estate. It’s how long Jake is giving us before he calls 9-1-1. We need to go now.” He’s about to turn.
I catch his wrist. “Why the urgency?”
“Because it’s done.”
My brows slowly lift as apprehension builds. “What’s done, Trev?”
“I pulled the rope. It’s over. You’re welcome, everyone.” He waves a hand around the bunker.
No one utters a fucking word of gratitude.
“What’d you do?” I ask while standing on a bed of nails. Please don’t say it. Please don’t say it, Trev. Please. Please.
“Claudia Waterford is dead. I killed her.”
THIRTY-NINE
Rocky
Ten Years Ago
The Fuckup
Somewhere Outside of Boston
Deep into the woods at nine p.m. I can only see in front of my feet thanks to a full moon and fireworks blasting overhead. The pop of color lights the darkness in reds, blues, and greens. Each step forward, the muddy ground splatters my loafers and the hem of my khakis.
I’m sixteen.
I’ve always felt older, probably because I’ve pretended to be an adult more than once, but today—I couldn’t feel less like a teenager. Because what person my age has to deal with this?
Rain has stopped. A storm from this morning left the earth soft and uneven. I hear a babbling stream nearby. My angered, dense breaths dry out my throat, but I hurry.
We’re hurrying.
My biceps scream as I adjust my grip on a heavy black tarp. Carrying the weight of…well, a body. “You’re going too fast,” I grunt out to Oliver.
He’s holding the other end, and his long legs outpace mine. “We don’t have much ti—”
I step into an ankle-deep hole. Tripping forward, I drop the body, and a splitting, excruciating pain shoots through my knee. I bury the scream between my teeth. “Fuuuuck.”
“Shit, shit.” Oliver tries to help me up.
“I’m fine. I’m fine.” I push him off me. Nausea roils as I pick myself up and set slight weight on my knee. Fucking Christ. I don’t look at it. I try to pop the kneecap back in, and stars flare in my eyes. I cough out. Holy fuck.
“Can you walk?”
“Grab your side,” I say, spitting onto the ground as the urge to throw up pummels me. “Grab it, Oliver.”
He stops hovering, and we resume course. Granted, each foot forward feels like a new blade and bullet in my leg. Pain radiates through my whole body, but I concentrate on my breath and focus on a critical task.
We follow Nova’s coordinates to an area of fallen trees. He’s already digging a ditch in the wet earth around the oaks. My ten-year-old brother sits on a tree trunk and picks at a chunk of rotten bark in his hands.