Series: Webs We Weave Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 635(@200wpm)___ 508(@250wpm)___ 423(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 635(@200wpm)___ 508(@250wpm)___ 423(@300wpm)
I still feel like doing it.
Still feel like inflicting sheer pain on someone else, and that darkness tries to burrow further and further inside me and make a home in my core.
A small con might be the perfect distraction from my homicidal thoughts, and anyway, ignoring Boyd’s presence in Connecticut would be a major mistake that I’m not going to make.
I rub at my swollen eyes, the light from the laptop starting to wear on me. Sitting on the same side of the booth as me, Trevor clicks through Nathan Deering’s social media profiles. Prep for a sweepstakes scam isn’t usually this intensive, but since Boyd is a repeat mark, we need to be extremely careful.
“This isn’t half bad,” Trevor says, stopping on a YouTube video of Nathan. In the clip, Boyd’s second cousin reviews a new postapocalyptic video game. I hear him talking through the right earbud of my headphones. Trevor’s wearing the left.
I mentally catalog some of his frequently used words. Dude. Like. Whatever. Dope.
The audio quality is the best we’ve come across in two hours. “Run it through the program,” I tell my brother, and then I stab my fork into a stack of double chocolate chunk pancakes.
I smell hash browns and hear the sizzle of oil. The staff consists of two college-aged girls, and according to them it’s been a slow night. They’ve only had to serve us and an older man at the bar. Pete Morris, a calc teacher at Victoria High. Made small talk with him when we entered. He said he has insomnia.
I wish trouble sleeping was my biggest problem.
Trevor clicks a couple buttons and opens a new window on the laptop. He rotates the screen more toward himself. Away from me and Grace, the young waitress who meanders over to refill our coffees.
“Can I get you anything?” Grace asks Trevor. He hasn’t ordered food yet.
Without looking up from the computer, he says, “The sweet potato pancakes.”
“That’s a good choice,” she tells him, then slips me a friendly smile before leaving our booth.
I glance over at him. “And here I thought you didn’t eat food. You just feasted on the souls of the damned.”
“There’s not enough damned souls to consume when I’m in a no fun zone.” He taps another key.
“Mine’s not enough for you?” I quip and take a swig of coffee.
“You’re not damned.” He’s typing. “You’re just emo.”
I mess his hair. “That’s what I let numbskull little brothers believe.”
He lets out a laugh, then slips me a shadowy smile. “You are more melodramatic than Machiavellian these days.” I’m about to tease him back, but as he trains his gaze on the screen, he says, “PG rubbing off on you?”
Mention of Phoebe locks my shoulders in place.
Trevor picks up on it. He scans me like he’s casing a locked safe. “I sense tension.”
“You sense me dropping this subject,” I snap. “Just plug in the recording.”
“I already did. I have to wait for it to process.”
With enough high-quality recordings of Nathan, the voice-changing software can alter my ingoing voice to sound like Nathan on an outgoing call. Technology has made duping people infinitely easier—it’s what my dad always told me. Even the rise of the internet created more pathways for people to be deceived. But in the same breath, there are more ways to get caught.
Trevor’s attention hasn’t left me. “So . . .” He flips over a sugar packet, watching me.
I’m staring at the screen. He’s not going to let this go. “I’m doing you a favor right now—” I start.
“I’ve never seen her cry like that.”
I grind my jaw, pushing back an avalanche of gnarled feelings. “Just drop it, Trev.”
He overturns the sugar again. “Is she okay?”
“Yeah.” I tell him what Phoebe would want me to say. “She’s fine.”
Trevor rips open the sugar. “She’s fine but she’s bawling in my brother’s chest when I’ve never seen her sob like that in my life.” He’s killing me, and he’s frustrated that I’m not giving him details after seeing Phoebe cry, which must’ve disturbed him, but it’s something I’m not repeating. Even if I could claw out the fucking words, it’s not for me to share.
He adds, “Clearly she likes you.” It snaps my eyes to him. “In the most kindergarten way.”
“You never went to kindergarten,” I remind him. “How would you know?”
Trevor reaches for his coffee. “You never went to law school and you still believe you’re the judge of everything.”
“I’m only judging your cologne, shithead.”
He almost smiles. “It’s vintage.”
“It smells like burnt sage and ass.” I don’t let him quip back. “This isn’t relevant right now.”
“You mean Phoebe,” he deadpans.
“Yeah.” Boyd. Stalkers. Sweepstakes scams. This is the path we need to be driving down. “Let’s just stay on fucking track.” I squeeze his shoulder to show I’m trying to be here. For him.