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)
Hypocrites-R-Us.
But I realize there aren’t many lies in our personas in Victoria, Connecticut.
Sure, Oliver isn’t really a therapist, and I’m not really an investor.
But the town knows Nova, Oliver, and Phoebe are triplets. They know Hailey is my sister and, more recently, that Trevor is my brother. They know we’re all cordial and close enough to live together.
This is the only place where we’ve ever established who we truthfully are to one another.
Some people even know our real personalities. I came in like a jealous, territorial, cold jackass who loves his ex—which is a big part of who I am.
It’s been therapeutic not giving a shit about the consequences that come with being myself, and I’ve understood why Phoebe wouldn’t want to walk away from that either.
The desire to maintain it for her, and maybe for me—it grows stronger.
We thumb through the metal boxes. IDs. Passports. Social security cards. Hell, I even have memberships to Costco and Sam’s Club under random names. Bernard Higgins. Ansel Odell. I take a new ID for the short time we’ll be out of town this week.
To meet our parents for dinner.
Oliver chooses one and latches his metal box closed. He’s picking up a razor when my phone buzzes.
I click into a text from Jake.
Strange.
Jake: Can you meet me tomorrow before Emilia’s funeral? I want to tell you the truth.
I read the text to Phoebe’s brothers. Oliver says, “Ask him if you can bring someone.” I do, and Jake is fast to respond.
“He said to come alone.” I reread the text. Great. “So I might die tomorrow,” I joke with the raising and lowering of my brows. Not enthused by this meetup, but I’m interested to hear what this so-called truth entails.
“I’ll wait outside the location,” Nova says, already planning my escape.
“You could wear a mic,” Oliver suggests. “The rest of us can listen in in case it gets dicey. Jake doesn’t strike me as the type to pat you down. Or would he?”
“He wouldn’t think I’d come in with a wire.”
He flips his razor between his fingers. “Perfect.”
I like the plan, so I ask Jake where we’re meeting.
Jake: My catamaran.
NINE
Rocky
Thank God Jake and I aren’t in a boat-measuring contest and we’re not comparing the size of our masts or length of our bows. Because I would fucking lose.
I have a perpetual scowl the moment I board the glittering sixty-five-foot Ananke.
“Don’t love the name,” I tell Jake as we go down into the hull.
He’s ahead of me and peers back with slight surprise. “You know your Greek gods?”
“Technically, she’s a primordial deity.” I duck as I descend the stairs. “You named your boat after the personification of compulsion, necessity, and inevitability.”
He lands in the living area first. Spacious, clean, hardly touched. Exactly what I’d expect from a billionaire. “Ananke is also the only one who has any influence over her daughters,” he tells me. “The three fates.”
Influence over fate. The ability to change destiny.
Does that appeal to him?
I don’t ask. I don’t share my theories of what I think about him and Ananke. It’s so easy for someone to construct a narrative around a morsel of belief. I show him a piece of the picture in my head, and he finishes it for me. That’s not the truth.
That’s just simple manipulation.
And whatever happens today, I won’t be manipulated by him.
I’m feeling hostile (being honest here). Like I could stick his head in a toilet and flush.
Jake can tell.
Because I’m not hiding the slow-burning irritation. It’s six a.m. We’re in funeral blacks. While he sports a designer peacoat, my hands are stuffed in my two-grand leather jacket. What he can’t see: I have a pistol holstered against my rib cage and a wire is taped to my bare chest beneath my black button-down.
There isn’t a mic in my ear. So I can’t hear Phoebe, but I know she’s listening in with Hailey, Trevor, and Oliver at the loft. Nova is parked at the marina and also tuning in to today’s show, called Jake Tells the Motherfucking Truth…Hopefully.
I carry empty suitcases of hope, so I’m expecting him to bullshit me and for this to go absolutely nowhere.
Jake motions to two curved, white leather couches facing one another and the Lysol-scented coffee table between them. “This is the Ananke. A portion, at least. She has six cabins, sundecks, two bars, all the usual things.” It’s massive. Big enough to host at least seventy people.
“Cute. I didn’t come here to play with your toys.” I hear my coarse voice. “I have better things to do. Like break up your fake relationship with my wife. Seeing as how you still haven’t done it yet.” We gave him an extra week, and he’s dragged his big feet every single day since.
He took my brief act of kindness and stepped on it. It’s why I can’t stop picturing him choking on toilet water.