The Cursed Series, Parts 3 & 4 (Cursed #3-4) - Rebecca Donovan Page 0,108

something.”

“Your mother hated my mother,” I say, interrupting him. Brendan looks confused. “Didn’t you know?”

“What are you talking about?” he asks, shifting in his chair.

I scan the room. “Where’s my backpack?”

Grant pulls it out from beside the couch. I unzip the bag, remove my mother’s box and take out the pictures with the threats and cruel words written on them to hand to Brendan.

“I’ve never seen these before.” Brendan sits up straight, shock flashing across his face as he inspects each image.

“You don’t know what happened?” I’m not convinced despite the abhorrence depicted on his face.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to find out, Lana! What the hell happened!” Brendan flings the pictures onto the table.

“Alright, take a breath, both of you,” Grant interjects, standing. He guides me away from Brendan and whispers in my ear, “Are you okay?”

I press my face to his shirt and inhale deeply. My heart’s racing, and my hands are shaking. I’m not okay, so I don’t answer. Grant wraps an arm around my waist, lowering us back onto the couch.

“How does Vic fit into all of this?” Grant asks Brendan, who has miraculously composed himself, shutting down every emotion—his face a slate of ambivalence.

“Vic … was right here. In the same town as the school Niall got me admitted to.” Brendan leans back in the chair, casually propping an ankle on his knee. “As soon as I heard his name, I looked him up to see if there was any relation to Julia or Damon Thorne. But I couldn’t get into any of his files other than to confirm Julia’s his mother. I asked for an introduction. But he didn’t know anything or wouldn’t reveal anything. That left you. And since our mothers were so close, I was convinced you could get the answers I couldn’t, if you didn’t already know them.” Brendan runs a hand through his hair.

“I accessed your records. School. Criminal. Health. Whatever. That’s when it became clear … you don’t talk. Hell, you wouldn’t even tell the police who killed your grandmother after …” Brendan pauses when Grant shifts forward. “But I needed you to talk. So I had to get you away from Sherling. Your mother. And your friends. Isolate you in the middle of fucking nowhere.”

He glances at me quickly. I’m not moving; my mind is unwilling to see where this is going. Grant is tense beside me, anticipating something that neither of us is going to like.

“Vic was a bit of a loner. He didn’t really fit in at Printz-Lee. Probably belongs at Blackwood, except I think he’s even too messed up for there. After his mother died earlier this year, he wasn’t … the same. He got into fights. Started taking all sorts of pills. Whatever shady shit he could get into. And started opening up more, letting things slip. Nothing really useful, just ranting about stupid shit. Except … he knew about you. And he hated you.”

“Because I’m in his mother’s will,” I offer as an explanation.

Brendan’s eyes widen in surprise. “What?”

“You knew.” There’s accusation in those two words.

Brendan shakes his head. “No. I don’t know anything about the will.” He directs his gaze to the ceiling in thought. “I guess it makes sense. Vic’s like you. He doesn’t share. He asked if I knew you one night when he was really fricken rocked on something. He thought I would since our mothers were friends. But he called her the lying bitch. So of course, this got me interested. Why would this guy hate your mother? He must know something. I tried to get in with him. Hooked him up with whatever he needed, thinking maybe he’d slip up or let me know what his mother’s letter meant. After getting to know him, I was beginning to wonder if her regret was bringing him into the world. He’s a real piece of—”

“I’m familiar. We’re well acquainted,” I interrupt icily. “Tell me the part when you betrayed me.”

“I didn’t know you,” Brendan protests. He leans back into the chair, exhaling.

I am a statue made of corded muscle. My eyes are lasers, drilling into Brendan’s brain. He’s about to tell me something that, in the pit of my stomach, I already know. And if he says it, I may never forgive him. Ever.

Grant’s hands curl into fists and press into his thighs.

“He wasn’t supposed to bring a gun. Who robs a piece-of-shit convenience store with a real gun? The guy behind the counter would’ve given him whatever he