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 can’t argue with that logic,” I mutter quietly, ire bubbling beneath my blood. Should I be happy that my sister isn’t best friends with the devils beneath our floorboards? Sure—maybe there’s a teeny-tiny fucking chance she’ll see our parents for what they are.
Maybe she won’t.
It doesn’t change the fact that she’s sitting across from me afraid of the people we’re supposed to trust with our entire lives. Hell, they have our entire lives in a vise.
Hailey catches my raging glare, and she intakes a deeper breath. “I am really glad you’re here, Rocky.”
“In case they find you?”
“Yeah, and because I love you more than I could ever love them. I hope you know that.”
I’ve never distrusted my sister, but she’s saying exactly what I want to hear instead of proving that in an action. She’s not our mother, I remind myself. Hailey wouldn’t toy with my emotions to get what she wants.
The longer I’m silent, the more Hailey frowns. “I love you, Rocky.”
I push aside any gnawing doubt. “I love you, too.” I stand from the chair. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t love you.”
“And Phoebe,” she adds.
I force a smile. “And Phoebe.” Saying her name pumps a heat through my veins and twists my insides. Did I forget her?
Never.
I could never.
I walk to the humming fridge and scour the barren shelves for leftovers. “The difference is that she doesn’t want me here.” I take the aluminum container of fettucine, and I find a fork, then return to my chair.
“I think she’ll come around,” Hailey says.
She thinks. “So she hasn’t secretly told you that she loves me hanging around town?”
“If she’s thinking it, she hasn’t told me.”
It stings. I don’t know why I pictured Phoebe gushing about me to my sister. It doesn’t sound like a Phoebe Graves thing to do. These days, she’s more likely to stake my picture with a knife.
I stab the pasta.
Hailey peers down at the notepad again. Her gaze flits nervously to the bathroom, where a shower runs. Phoebe currently occupies it. I make a habit to try not to pick apart my sister’s friendship with Phoebe. They feed off each other in a way that seems toxic to me, but I don’t have a fucking best friend. So what do I know?
I fixate on Hailey’s caginess. “Is this about Phoebe?”
“Is what about her?”
“Your anxiety.” I point my fork at the notepad. “And that.” I eat the cold fettucine.
“I’m just crunching numbers . . .”
After I swallow a bite of pasta, I stab at a piece of chicken. “Let me guess.” I look up. “You can’t survive off your meager savings and hourly work at the country club?”
Hailey lets out a soft, resigned sigh.
“That’s a yes, you’re right, Rocky. And I’d say I’m shocked but that’d be a lie, and apparently, you’ve outlawed my favorite thing to do.” I flash a dry smile that vanishes as soon as her eyes grow wide.
She glances nervously at the bathroom again. “Just be quiet. Please.”
What the hell?
I frown deeply. I’d ask her when she started keeping secrets from Phoebe, but it wasn’t long ago that my sister blindsided Phoebe about the price of this loft. I’d rub in the fact that living honestly for Hailey has meant being more deceptive toward one of the few people she’d never deceive.
But I love my sister, and I won’t rub salt into a clearly infected, open wound.
“I don’t get it,” I say. “You didn’t crunch these numbers before coming here?”
She rereads her notes. “I did the math correctly. But every other country club I’ve been to didn’t have a no-tipping policy. We were going to rely on tips.”
Seeing Hailey’s plan foiled before my eyes is expected. It’s what I thought would happen, but dread slowly churns my stomach. I want this to work for them. Or else they might pack their bags and head to Seattle, returning to the world where our parents dictate their every move.
“And now what?” I ask her.
She opens her mouth to speak, but the shower cuts off. Her eyes flit to the bathroom again.
I lower my voice to ask, “Is there a reason you’re keeping this from Phoebe?”
Her lips flatline. “I just don’t want to worry her.”
“Because you’re worried.” I look her up and down. “Are you throwing in the towel already?”
“No,” she says strongly. “I can’t give up this fast. We’re staying here.”
Relief washes over me in a wave.
She continues in a whisper, “At the rate we’re working, we’ll only be able to afford the loft for three more months. Then . . . we’ll have to either get different jobs or a different place to stay. Chelsea Noknoi at the country club—a friend, not a mark,” Hailey cuts herself off quickly. “Add that to your mental Rolodex, please. I know she’s in it.”