Page 127 of Bleacher Report
Not here. Not in Carly’s living room. Not in front of Hunter.
“I didn’t realize you still had that. I figured you burned everything before moving into Richard's mansion," he says flatly, holding the frame by its edge like it might burn him.
Bethany shrugs. “Not everything can be replaced. Some things are forever. I thought it was a nice memory. You always did say that was your favorite night.”
“That was a long time ago. A lot has changed, including your last name, if you remember.”
Carly clears her throat, trying to bring the tension down. “Well, thank you, Beth. That was thoughtful.” She opens her own gift—something from Tiffany’s, of course—and I let the murmur of motherly gratitude and charm bracelets blur into the background.
Because all I can hear is my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.
I feel Bethany’s stare before I even turn.
That smile—blinding, predatory, sharp enough to slice through the cinnamon-sugar warmth of the kitchen—burns between my shoulder blades.
“I’ll be right back,” I say quickly, grabbing my mug. “Just need the restroom.”
“Okay, honey,” Carly calls after me. “The rest of us will get started on those cinnamon rolls. They should be ready soon, and they’ll go great with Mrs. Bramble’s eggnog.”
“Unless she’s already passed out drunk in her kitchen from drinking her own supply,” Hunter jokes.
Bethany laughs too loudly, like it’s her job.
I duck into the downstairs bathroom. But I don’t need to pee. I need to breathe. Because Bethany showing up just when things were finally starting to feel right? That’s classic Bethany.
I grip the edges of the sink and stare at my reflection. Hunter doesn’t want her. He’s chosen me. We’re supposed to startsomething new after this trip. After Christmas. After Carly. After—
The knock comes just as I’m trying to shake it all off.
I don’t even have time to respond before the door creaks open—
And five-foot-nine of perfume and perfectly waved hair sweeps in like she owns the place, forcing me to step back just to keep from being steamrolled.
“Bethany—”
“We need to talk.”
“I don’t think we do. Hunter doesn’t want to be with you. That’s not on me. That’s on you.”
“This isn’t about Hunter,” she snaps. “It’s about Carly.”
That stops me.
“What about her?”
“She’s sick, Peyton. Really sick. And she’s been lying to Hunter.”
My breath catches. “What are you talking about?”
Bethany pulls four envelopes from her designer purse and drops them dramatically onto the bathroom counter.
I glance down. They’re all addressed to Carly Reed. One’s from a cancer research center in Texas, another in Michigan, one from Florida, and the last from somewhere in Washington.
“Clinical trials,” I breathe. “You stole these? Isn’t that a federal offense to steal mail?”
“Technically I didn’t open them,” she says, like that makes it better. “She’d have to press charges, and honestly? I don’t care. She’s lying to everyone, and I had to know the truth.”
“So you…suspected?”
