Series: Webs We Weave Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 167
Estimated words: 162520 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 813(@200wpm)___ 650(@250wpm)___ 542(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162520 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 813(@200wpm)___ 650(@250wpm)___ 542(@300wpm)
“No, to be honest with you. Beth took a misstep when she raised you. Like I’ve said, we don’t lie to each other.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “So, if we’re being so honest, what do you need to talk to Jake about?”
“His horses.” Varrick unbuttons the third button of his sport coat. “I was just tipped off that someone reported the abuse to the authorities.”
“Wait, the horses that have been spray-painted? Those are Trent’s horses.”
“They’re in Jake’s stables. He’s going to be charged today unless I can get him on the phone with the district attorney to smooth it over.”
My blood runs cold. “Did Trent put someone up to this?” I can see him making up some phony report and citing Jake as the culprit.
“No clue,” Varrick says. “But I’m trying to keep him out of trouble as best I can.”
“Thanks,” I say without thinking. The word sours in my mouth. I glance around the rotunda, feeling the weight of our conversation. We’ve been talking freely for way too long for my comfort.
He watches me in intrigue, not carrying an ounce of panic. “I assume your mom never trained you in sensory deprivation or saturation.”
My throat dries. “It was optional.” I want to ask if he trained in it and whose idea it was in the first place. His? My mom’s?
Locked in a pitch-black room for hours on end, made to distinguish even the smallest of sounds. Only later to be in the same room with a cacophony of garbled noises and instructed to piece apart each one. Not all of us loved it.
I hated it.
It was the only exercise I ever refused to do. I hated myself for giving up, which might’ve been why I never did again.
Seeing Rocky enter and exit that room day after day without me hurt more than even being inside the darkness. Can Rocky hear if someone sneaks up behind him? Most likely, yes. But it’s not as if he gained superhuman hearing. He can’t hear someone approaching from the other end of the building.
Varrick’s confidence lives in risk, but maybe that comes with decades of grifting and never being caught. I assume he thinks he can hear an eavesdropper before they even get too close.
Even living at Stonehaven, I’ve refused to ask him questions about the past. About his relationship with my mom. I don’t want to be influenced by his answers, but the hunger to know more about the past gnaws the weak parts of me.
I cave. “Did you train in it?” Immediate guilt accompanies the question. This means nothing. I still hate him.
He doesn’t gloat like he won something over on me. He nods casually. “Yes. All of us did. Your mom, Addison, and Everett. It was Addy’s idea, most things were.” He tilts his head. “Hailey doesn’t fall far from the tree in that respect, I’ve seen.”
My chest tightens, not receiving the relief I expected from an answer. I just feel more exposed.
Varrick reads me too well because he doesn’t wait for me to trudge up a conversation ender. “I should go speak with Jake,” he tells me before he leaves the rotunda.
It’s only once he disappears that I remember Hailey’s baby news. Today.
I groan into my hands. And I thought I was having a shitty day.
Jake Waterford is about to take the prize.
TWENTY-FOUR
Jake
“Whoa, whoa. Backtrack.” Oliver’s feet drop off his desk and hit the floor in a loud thump. “You almost got arrested tonight?’
“Charged—not arrested.” I run a tense hand through my hair. Oliver’s office is quiet since his last patient left an hour ago. Never thought I’d be making a visit here unless I was drunk, high, or otherwise incapacitated. “And major emphasis on almost. The charges were dropped.” I lean two hands on the club chair that faces the desk. Mid-lunge. Trying my best to unwind my muscles, but I’m not sure I can relax.
Oliver props his elbows on the mahogany desk and watches me. “You don’t look like someone who just dodged a stain on his spotless record.”
“You do know you’re not a real therapist?”
“Wrong, Koning. I am a real therapist. I provide very real services to my clients.” He tosses a glass paperweight between his hands. “I might just be lacking the real credentials.”
I let out a low groan. “I shouldn’t be here. I don’t want to be complicit to whatever this is.” I wave a hand around his office. The warmly lit room has camel leather chairs, a full shelf of self-help books and scientific journals, a box of tissues on the oak coffee table, and a con artist sitting behind the desk.
Oliver wags an unserious finger. “You’re okay with the death of your mother, but you draw the line at me actually helping people?”
I shoot him a glare. “You know that’s not it.”