In the thrilling conclusion to the Webs We Weave series, ex-con artist Phoebe Graves must pull off the biggest grift she’s ever devised to keep her friends and family safe. Conning the rich and fleeing to new cities is all ex-grifter Phoebe Graves has ever known--until she started building real relationships in a small but wealthy Connecticut town. But she’s worried these new bonds won’t hold fast as more than one big bad wolf threatens to blow down those she loves most. And now more than ever, she has a reason to stay in one place. Among them is Brayden “Rocky” Tinrock, her best friend’s older brother, who’s been a partner to Phoebe during every daring and exhilarating con. And then of course there’s Hailey Tinrock, her best friend, whose precious secret they’ll do anything to protect. . . . As Phoebe and her family team up with the Tinrocks to fight for a chance at a home, they confront the demons of their pasts and must do the impossible . . . deceive the most cunning con artist they’ve ever known.

Autorentext

​​Krista and Becca Ritchie are New York Times and USA Today bestselling authors and identical twins—one a science nerd, the other a comic book geek—but with their shared passion for writing, they combined their mental powers as kids and have never stopped telling stories. They love superheroes, flawed characters, and soul mate love.

Leseprobe
ONE

Hailey

You're saying it's already noon?" I ask while I slip out of black rumpled bedsheets. I pat my arms and limbs to ensure I'm real.

This is real.

I'm not lost in my head. I'm not asleep. I don't think.

I slip my fingers down my fair skin, brushing over my hip bones and a camo-green lacy thong, then up to a strappy neon-blue sports bra. My underwear choices are on-brand for my life right now.

Mismatched. Mixed-up. Disordered.

I bolt for the digital clock at my bedside and crouch down to inspect the numbers. It says 12:03 p.m.-and logically, I should believe my own eyes, but historically speaking, I'm having a little bit of a hard time with the concept. Two weeks ago, I experienced a hallucination so vivid, I ran barefoot through the grounds of the Koning estate and found myself locked in an old storm shelter. Where I believed I was being violently murdered.

Turns out, I locked myself in there. Alone.

Big, big whoops.

Reality washed away the delusion . . . eventually, and I found the answers about our births that I'd been searching sleeplessly for. But the aftereffects of being bamboozled, deceived, conned by the people we trusted most-the godmothers and godfather: the ones who raised me, my two brothers, and the Graves triplets-have seeped deeper into me than maybe they have for my best friend, Phoebe.

I question everything at every turn. I don't want to. I want to believe the wall is a real fucking wall and my feet are truly planted on the floorboards. That I'm really in this cute little loft above Baubles & Bookends, a bookstore in Victoria, Connecticut.

My reality.

One I created. I asked Phebs to live honestly with me on the coast of New England last summer. I asked Phebs to join my Mystic Pizza dream, where we were supposed to have normal romances and normal jobs (we are still country club servers, at least). I advertised this version of us living our best Julia Roberts lives. Perfect, lush hair days. Romantic small-town entanglements worthy of the big screen.

No deception.

No cons.

But it's been hard for me to stop what I was raised to do, and the only reason I wanted to retire this trade was for Phoebe. I would've done anything to get Phebs to quit the family business. Her role is damaging. I saw it damaging her . . . maybe before she even did, and I couldn't watch anymore.

We're grifters. We move. We run once our pockets are loaded and it's time to choose a new rich mark, but I want to stay in this reality I've created for my best friend. I want it to be mine, too. So the ground has to be stable. This has to be real.

But . . . "It-it can't be noon," I stammer. "It was just nine in the morning." I back up from the digital clock like it's a mini explosive.

"Hailstorm."

I freeze at the deep, comforting voice behind me. Familiar. Masculine. He's a strong, soothing rush of cold water against my mind. I wake up to the sound of Oliver Graves.

His fingertips touch the top of my head, and I rotate with the movement of his fingers, like he's twisting a tiny porcelain version of me in a music box.

I peer up at his twinkling caramel-flecked brown eyes. Ones I've stared into for so long that I can't reliably count the exact years. Facts: I'm twenty-four, and I've known Oliver since I was born, but memory recollection is said to begin around three and a half to four years old and is typically tied to an emotional or unusual event.

I remember him when I believe I was four.

I remember his arm curving over my shoulders as he tried to comfort me. We were left on a windowsill nook in a fancy Newport estate. I can't remember whose home it was. I can barely remember what we were doing there.

I do remember feeling lost. I remember wondering why I couldn't play with Phoebe. So I kept to myself. Said very little. Gazed out the window. Even in my quiet shell, Oliver found me and gave me a great sense of relief.

Fear has no home in my body when he's around. Strange how that is, but everything about my life could be classified as abnormal.

I skate my eyes over his mesmeric features. Olly is beautiful. Pieces of his hair curl around his ears-the strands not long enough to be a bother, but not short either. I've sunk my fingers into his glossy hair at its natural dark-chocolate-brown color, and I've slipped them into the dyed lighter walnut shade he has today. Grabbing and clutching as he pistoned into me.

Like he did late last night.

He's not naked now. His white tank shows off carved biceps. The elastic waistband of his black boxer briefs accentuates the toned V-line of his muscles that I've trailed my tongue down once or twice. Okay, closer to a hundred times.

The problem: I've hallucinated Oliver before. I followed him into the storm shelter-or rather, a figment of him. One that I could never physically catch and grab.

Yet, gazing at Olly here and now, I'm not scared.

I feel myself ease, even as I say, "There's a probability I never woke up this morning. That I'm still dreaming."

"Hands." Oliver holds out his, and I instinctually place my hands in his hands. His eyes never leave mine. His smile stretches as he rubs his thumbs along my palms. "She feels real to me."

I nearly smile back. "Really anxious?"

"No, you have steady hands, Hails." He lifts my palms to his cheeks, rests them tenderly against his jaw, and I breathe deeper, feeling-truly feeling Oliver. I glide my fingers over his slight stubble from not shaving yesterday. I thumb the soft skin beneath his glittering eyes.

The stress tensing my body begins to slip away. Because he's not staring at me as if losing my mind is synonymous with a face full of pus-laden boils. He's staring at me as if I'm perfectly Hailey.

As if I'm pretty.

Inside. Out.

Mad and all.

It's what he's good at-making people feel loved. He's a trained flirt. He could cause a married woman to fall head over heels for him at first casual greeting. Which he has done. Multiple times for various con jobs. One of which I even constructed.

He's the chameleon. An integral player on the board. I'm the mastermind. The one moving the pieces.

It's not our roles that made me think we'd be an ill-fated couple. I've just never believed we could be anything more than fuck buddies, given both our proclivities to sleep around and bang anyone with a pulse. But lately, he's only …