Page 17 of Wicked Devotions

“The front door.”

I watch his face for any trace of guilt, but all I see isthe muscle along his jaw twitch as he clenches his teeth. He reads through it twice and pulls out his phone, his thumbs moving furiously across the screen.

“Who are you texting?” I ask.

“Let me see that.” Cy takes it from Declan, and Emerson reads it over his shoulder.

“Is this from Banks?” Emerson asks me.

“No. He would never write anything like that, and he’s at swim practice right now.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Yes.” I open my phone and click on his location showing that he’s still at swim practice hours away.

“It’s not Banks,” Declan says as he sets his phone down. “You and your mom have been getting a fuck ton of creepy letters. People are either obsessed with your dad or pissed at him.”

“What do you mean? I haven’t seen anything before.”

“We’ve been intercepting them.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “I didn’t think anyone would figure out you were here though.”

“You didn’t think it was something I should know about?” The audacity to hide something like this from me.

“No.” He looks completely confidentin his answer. “Why worry you when you’re absolutely safe with us?”

“Did you know?” I look accusingly at Cy because he’s been the one I’ve warmed up to most.

“I had no idea.” He holds his hands up, but I swear there’s a flicker of guilt in his eyes. Just as soon as I notice it though, it disappears.

“Just because Banks’s location says he is one place doesn’t mean he’s really there,” Emerson says. “FaceTime him.”

“He can’t answer if he’s swimming laps.”

“Just try.”

I roll my eyes but step away and call anyway. It rings several times, and then suddenly he’s filling the screen with water rolling down his shoulders and googles across his forehead. A smile lifts my lips immediately. Warmth fills my body at the sight of him.

“Hi,” I say. “I’m sorry for calling you at practice. I just wanted to ask if you sent me a weird letter or anything?”

“No.” His brows draw together. “What kind of weird letter?”

Declan grabs the phone. “How long have you been at practice?”

“Two hours,” a hard edge bleeds through his tone. “Let me see the letter.”

Declan switches the camera around, so Banks can read it.

“What the fuck?” he says, his voice seething. “Give the phone back to Harper.”

Declan hands it back, and I switch to the front camera again. “Apparently Mom and I have been getting weird mail like this for a while, and Cillian and Declan decided not to tell me.”

“So you wouldn’t be freaked out,” Declan says.

“It’s not too late to transfer to UGA. I can ask coach if there’s any way to pull some strings.”

“Absolutely not,” Declan says.

“She’s fine here,” Cyrus adds.

---