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)
“I’m serious,” Trevor says.
“You don’t say?” Oliver says lightly, then cocks his head at me like something is wrong with your brother, man.
Yeah. “Why do you want his eyes?” I groan out.
“I don’t think he should have them.”
Great. I spit to the side again. “What’d you see, Trev?” I finally ask.
“I was watching them. Through the window of the shed. She was drinking with him, then she passed out. He caught her in his arms, but…he didn’t help her.” His frown deepens. “I thought he’d help her.”
“Is that all?”
“He was messing with her clothes.” He scratches his nail over the bark. “He didn’t see me coming…no one ever sees me.” His gray eyes lift to mine. “I got him in the neck.”
I nod a ton, my lungs roasting alive with each heavy breath. He’s ten. I think our mom has taught him about sexual assault, seeing as how we’re walking a minefield of shitty people doing shitty things. She wanted to ensure the people we screw over don’t rub off on any of us. I don’t know if she mentioned rape. I don’t tell him he might’ve prevented that. I don’t give him kudos for killing.
I just say, “This stays here. With the four of us.”
Nova hesitates. “Your dad should know—”
“No,” I snap back. “How is he going to help the situation? We shouldn’t even tell our sisters. You want to put them at risk of being an accessory to…?”
Murder.
I say out loud, “Self-defense. And that’s what we’re going with if this all blows up. I can talk our way out of it.”
Nova relents, then throws more dirt onto a pile.
“We should cut off his ears, at least,” Trevor says.
“You think the dead can hear?” Oliver muses, as if my brother isn’t currently imagining butchering a body.
“Next time,” I tell Trev, “run out and call an adult. This isn’t the way.”
Trevor just nods. “Sorry, Rock.”
I want to hug him. Ditch. Body. Bury. No time. Once the body is packed beneath dirt, we all head back to the lake house. Fireworks still pop in the sky, and with my enflamed knee, I limp my way toward the docks.
As soon as I’m in view of people, I walk normally. I even run—and I leap into the dark water, plunging deep. Then I breach the surface and wipe a hand against my face. Dirt—I’m washing off the dirt.
I laugh and holler out like I’m having the time of my life.
It entices half the student body to rush down the hill. Seniors begin cannonballing and splashing into the lake. Causing raucous, chaotic noise. Nova and Oliver join like they’re part of the pack, but they’re doing it to get clean, too.
Trevor dives off the dock in a perfect arc.
The only relief in my body is from the water. And seeing Phoebe jump in after me.
The laughter in my chest is real now. It expands in me like a balloon as she swims closer, as her pissed-off eyes sink into mine, as I tread water around her, circling.
“Peggy,” I taunt.
“Kieran.” She scoops water in her mouth and spits a stream at my face.
I fight a smile. “Mature.” I splash her back.
“The most mature.” She splashes me, then I dunk her, and we’re wrestling in the lake with dozens of happy-go-lucky, oblivious teenagers swimming around us.
For a minute, I feel her holding on to me. Hugging me. I cup the back of her head, more affectionately, and I consider kissing her. I would if I knew it wouldn’t ruin our positions in the job, which would infuriate Phoebe.
Then she ends the embrace and plants two hands on my head, trying to dunk me. I have her by the waist, and we’re fighting all over again. On repeat.
Over and over.
When she slows, water beads down her face and catches in her lashes. Her lips dip beneath the surface of the lake.
I’m so in love with her.
I can’t control it. I just feel it growing, intensifying, devastating me.
And I hope it obliterates me.
Every single day of my life.
FORTY
Rocky
Now
Claudia’s funeral has double the turnout of Emilia Wolfe’s. Trent Waterford makes sure of it.
“He doesn’t want an autopsy. He’s adamant,” Jake told me at the florist shop down the street from Baubles & Bookends. Several days before the funeral.
We met there since Trent wanted me to ensure Jake didn’t order the wrong type of flowers for the memorial service. He’d never said which flower that was, but it didn’t matter if it was tulips or carnations or fucking lilies—as long as Jake didn’t choose it, it’d do.
The florist snipped stems of pink peonies at the counter. Phoebe’s favorite. We browsed the vases near the shop window, out of earshot of the florist. “Let me guess, Trent doesn’t want her body tampered with,” I said quietly.
“Yep,” Jake said, just as hushed. “He thinks it’s a desecration, and the coroner is already ruling it as a stroke.”