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)
“Fine.” He nods and sips his coffee slowly before gently setting down the mug. He goes rigid. “Shit.” He shoots forward to the screen and taps a key.
“What?”
“We’re only at fifty percent recognition.”
We need another audio recording. Maybe two more. I run a hand through my hair and then glance at my watch.
Fuck, it’s late. Any hope of going back to the loft before midnight flies out the window. We’ll also need to call Boyd at a reasonable time. It’s unlikely he’ll pick up a three a.m. phone call from his distant cousin.
Taking out my cell, I shoot Phoebe a quick text.
This is taking longer than I thought. Sorry.
She’s quick to respond.
Phoebe: no rush.
I grimace and reread the two words. Part of me wishes she would’ve asked me to hurry back, but that’s not Phoebe. I’m not even shocked at her next text. Just fucking dejected.
Phoebe: going to sleep now, see you tomorrow or whenever I do.
My eyes burn the longer I reread it. All I can do is type out a similar casual-toned response.
Sleep well. I’ll stop by tomorrow.
Phoebe leaves me on read.
It’s not that unusual. My text was basically an endnote to our conversation, but my lungs are tight. The only thing keeping me focused is my brother beside me.
He scours the internet for more recordings and finds a couple five-second clips from Instagram. Still not enough to hit a hundred percent, but it’s progress.
I try and come up with a vague idea of what I’m going to say. Not a script. That’d be stilted. But the wording also has to be authentic to Nathan.
“Hey, dude,” I whisper under my breath, sounding it out. I’ll probably say something about it being a while since we’ve spoken. Keep it vague since I don’t really know how long it’s been, besides their interactions on socials. “I had this all-inclusive trip planned to Cancún, but I can’t make it. There’s snorkeling and cave tubing. It’s pretty dope.”
I wince.
Trevor also winces. “You’re going to have to do better than that.”
“Give me a fucking second,” I snap. I don’t like impersonating real people. I like being someone new. Someone molded by me. This . . . this is going to take time.
“You have a second,” my brother says. “You have five. Ten. However many you need, Rock, just make sure he believes it.”
“I’m trying,” I say dryly. “But I’m not God.” And this is exactly why we don’t have repeat marks. It complicates everything.
Trevor studies me. “Once upon a time, you could have made me believe you were.” He goes back to his coffee. “I was five,” he deadpans. “So keep your ego in check.”
“My ego is still right where I left it . . .” I taper off, skimming Nathan’s socials again and figuring out his mutual friends with Boyd.
Trevor takes my silence as doubt, but I’m not that afraid. “I’m dead serious, Rocky. He has to believe it.” The urgency. It’s something I won’t get used to from my brother.
“I know,” I tell him. “I know.”
After the prep is done, pancakes eaten, and voice recognition complete, we pay the bill and return to the loft. Quiet in the living room, we’re on the couch where he’s been crashing. It’s one a.m.—almost too late to make the call, but both Boyd and Nathan regularly post photos on Instagram around this time, so there’s a chance he might be awake.
I have the burner phone to my ear, but the end of it is plugged into the laptop to run my voice through the software in real time.
The phone rings and rings.
Pick up, Boyd.
He answers. “Who’s this?”
“Hey, dude, it’s Nathan. I got a new phone—sorry, I know this is out of the blue. How have you been?”
Trevor’s leg jostles, and I clamp a hand on his knee to stop him. I mouth, Get out. He glares, but he can’t make any noise and like hell am I putting this on speakerphone so he can listen.
Boyd starts talking. “Pretty good . . . Is this about Trish?”
Trish. Their mutual brunette friend. I only know they all went to some line dancing club together five years ago.
“Nah, nah, nothing like that.” I keep it casual, but Trevor is unblinking and too intense, probably internally freaking the fuck out—so I stand up with the laptop and move to the window. Away from him. “Funny enough, I have, like, this thing I booked, and I can’t go.”
“No shit?”
“Yeah.” I sound bummed. “It’s super dope. All-inclusive to Cancún. Leaves soon. There’s snorkling and shit.”
“Huh . . .”
I hate his skeptical huh, but I try not to linger on the sound. “It’s nonrefundable, and I didn’t want something like this to go to waste. I’ve, like, been going through my list—”
“And I’m on it?”
“Yeah, but come on, you’re not that high up.”