Page 113 of Wicked Little Games (The Four Nightmares of Castle Pointe 2)

I blink when I get to the back, seeing a family tree that has me double taking.

“Holy. Shit,” I breathe.

“Sibley Alastair, born January third, nineteen-nineteen. Died June twenty-first, nineteen forty-seven. Daughter, Agnes Alastair, born March third, nineteen forty-five. Died May sixteenth, nineteen sixty-seven. Daughter, Tabitha Ares, born August tenth, nineteen sixty-one. Daughter, Willow Ares, born February thirteenth, nineteen eighty-four. Daughter, Hazel Ares, born October first, two thousand four.

I blink, rereading it multiple times, over and over again, until the letters blur.

Wait, I’m related to Agnes Alastair? To Sibley Alastair?

My bones freeze, and my chest starts heaving in panicked breaths. A whooshing begins in my ears, and I feel like I can’t breathe. The book slips from my fingers and I reach for my throat, clutching the skin as I try to gasp in air, though nothing is working, nothing at all.

I cry breaks from my throat, and I toss the book aside as tears flood my eyes. I kick the other books off my bed, wanting them to disappear altogether, rolling over onto my knees as I grab my pillow, smashing it to my chest.

No.

No.

I don’t want it to be true. It would make sense why this darkness is inside of me.

But I don’t want it to be true. I don’t want to be filled with evil like my great ancestors. I want to be good, just as my mom and grandma have always seemed to be. Are they bad? Do they still have an evilness in their blood?

Another cry flees from my throat, and I slap my hand over my lips. I don’t want to talk to my mom or grandma, even though I should probably race to them, demand all the answers I never knew I had.

I can’t believe they never told me.

Agnes’s daughter is my grandma.

My great-grandmother is Agnes Alastair.

I saw her ghost in the asylum. I know it was her.

A panic attack burns me alive, and I clutch my sheets as I slip from my bed. Standing up, my feet pad across the floor as I break into hysteria.

What do I do? Was this meant to be?

My feet freeze, my knees locking up.

Oh, no.

Realization hits me in the face when everything begins to add up.

If I’m related to Sibley Alastair, and Felix is related to Beryl Kipling, that means…we’re related.

“Oh my God,” I cry out, nausea swirling through me as aggressive as the waves crash to the shore. Grief and anger hit me like a train, and my hands begin to shake. I lace my fingers together and press the heels of my palms against my chest as I attempt to slow my racing heart, but it’s impossible.

Whether my heart races fast or slow, Felix will still have the same blood as I do.

“Shit,” I groan, grabbing my backpack. I throw all the books inside, haphazardly zipping it up and tossing the strap over my shoulder.

I shove my feet into my boots at the foot of my bed, leaving my fuzzy socks and pajamas on as I race toward my window. My hand shoots out, and I grab my car keys on my nightstand. Pressing on my window, I shove it up, a blast of cold air slapping me in the face.

My leg swings over, and I glance over my shoulder, worrying my lower lip between my teeth.

It’ll all be okay.

I hope.

Sprinting out to my car, I slide in my driver’s seat, tossing my backpack on the passenger seat as I start it up. The lights are on in front of my house, and I see a figure walk up to the kitchen window.

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