Page 15 of Treasured by Them (Rose and Dagger #3)
Danica
I try to give Malcolm and Zora some space over the course of the day. Partly because I feel a little bad being here when they’d hoped to be alone. Partly because I want to look through my scrapbook from camp.
Something about that one photo of my old bunk is stuck in my head. I want to look at it again. So I grab the scrapbook and another beer and get comfy in one of the deck chairs.
I stare hard at the photograph of my old bed. Why does this picture matter? Something tells me it does—something about the way my throat feels tight, how my heart squeezes ominously in my chest.
“Hey, Dani!” Zora waves her hand, a concerned squint to her deep brown eyes. “You okay?”
I blink. How much time has gone by? It’s early afternoon already. “Yeah, I’m good. Just spacing out, looking at old pictures.”
“Aw.” She peers over my shoulder at the scrapbook and points at one of the rare photos of myself. “Is that you? You went to camp as a kid?”
“Yeah. Right here on Danish Lake, actually. The camp was just across the water, on the opposite shore. If we had binoculars, we’d be able to see the old buildings.
” I give an involuntary shiver. The thought of being so close to the place is eerie.
That weight presses on my chest, the beginning of a panic attack.
I breathe slowly like Troy taught me, hoping to ward it off.
Oblivious, Zora keeps talking. “That’s really cool, the history you have with this place.”
“It kind of is, isn’t it?” Deep breaths. Even breaths.
“I hope Malcolm and I can both get teaching jobs nearby.” She gazes wistfully at the lake.
“I want to put down roots, you know? Become a part of something. He feels a real tie to the lake. He spent a lot of years in the area. Maybe we can get a place up here eventually. If we save a lot. It’ll be next to impossible on our teaching salaries. ”
Listening to her chatter helps me calm down, so I’m able to say, “Teachers are freaking heroes. I admire both of you for the work you do.”
“Thank you…I love teaching. Just wish it paid better.”
“I agree.” I notice her outfit—shorts, a tank top, and hiking boots, along with a big water bottle. “Are you going somewhere?”
“Yeah. Malcolm and I were supposed to meet some friends for a hike. He can’t make it because he tweaked his leg yesterday, but they drove all this way. I don’t want to disappoint them by canceling. Wanna come with?”
I consider it, but I don’t know their friends, and I feel like I’m on the brink of figuring something out with my scrapbook. “Thanks, but I’ll stick close to the cold beer.”
She laughs. “Fair enough. Malcolm’s napping in the sitting room. Well, he was reading, but I don’t think he got past the first page before he started dozing off.”
“He sounds just like my dad.”
“Well, they are best friends.” Her phone chimes and she pulls it from her pocket. “They’re nearly here. I better go. See you in a few hours!”
“See you!” I raise my bottle in farewell.
When I glance at the photograph again, I get a niggling feeling in the back of my head, like a memory trying to break through.
The math journal keeps catching my eye. It seems like such a weird detail to fixate on, but I happened to bring the math journal along with my other journals. I may as well take a closer look.
Huffing out a sigh, I get up and make the trek upstairs to get it from my room. On the way back down, I peer into the living room, where sure enough, Malcolm is dozing on the couch with a book open, face-down on his chest. It rises and falls with each one of his breaths.
I return to my chair and open my journal.
The first entry is dated June 15 th . Spread over the page is Pascal’s triangle, copied carefully in my clumsy childhood penmanship.
1
1 1
1 2 1
1 3 3 1
1 4 6 4 1
1 5 10 10 5 1
1 6 15 20 15 6 1
I love the triangle for its symmetry. Always have. There’s such beauty in how the numbers are arranged, how they add up.
Getting out my phone, I look up the date Britney Gardner went missing.
June 24 th . Do I have any entries from that date?
I flip ahead, past some random experiments I did with squares and square roots.
June 24 th is empty, but the 25 th is another Pascal’s triangle.
It looks messy, though, and it’s full of extra numbers next to the originals.
The top 1 has a tiny 1 next to it, as if in superscript, as if I’m saying one to the power of one.
The next line has a 1 with a tiny 2 next to it—one to the power of two.
And the third 1 has a tiny 3 —one to the power of three.
1 1
1 2 1 3
1 4 2 1 1 5
1 6 3 1 3 2 1 7
1 8 4 1 6 1 4 2 1 9
1 10 5 1 10 1 10 2 5 2 1 11
1 12 6 2 15 1 20 1 15 2 6 1
What the fuck is this?
The triangle only goes down for seven lines. Every number except the final two has a tiny number next to it, and none of them are the same.
This feels…important. I don’t know why, but it does.
I go back to the image of my camp bed. Nothing new sticks out at me.
My breathing comes faster as I look back at the triangle of numbers. I was trying to do something here. Did I think I was improving on Blaise Pascal’s absolutely perfect pattern? Doubtful. I love his triangle as it is, no notes, no room for improvement. It is utter perfection.
So, what’s my deal?
I flip to the next page. For the first time, I’m mad that I never write actual words in this journal. I could’ve explained my obsession with Pascal’s triangle, or explained those stupid extra numbers.
But the following page is absolute nonsense. The same string of numbers is repeated over and over again, filling the page.
6 1 1 1 4 1 1 3 1 9 4 1 6 1
6 1 1 1 4 1 1 3 1 9 4 1 6 1
6 1 1 1 4 1 1 3 1 9 4 1 6 1
Six to the power of one is six. One to the power of one is one. Four to the power of one is four. One to the power of three is still one, so why the fuck do I need to say it that way? One to the power of nine equals one. Four to the power of one, four. Six to the power of one, again—six.
It’s just random, jumbled numbers.
I slam the journal closed. This is pointless.
There’s no revelation to be found in the numbers.
Maybe the day after she went missing, I was worried about Britney and I sought comfort in Pascal.
I’ve done it before, many times. I could flip through this journal and find several pages—some of them recent—where I soothed myself by writing it down.
This is freaking irritating. I down the rest of my beer and stand up to stretch—only to see a man standing right behind me.
I shriek before I realize it’s only Malcolm.
“Hey, sorry!” He holds up his hands. “I was just going to ask where the key to the shed might be. Craig said I could take out the canoe. Since I can’t hike, I thought I might as well row.”
I’ll never understand people who can’t sit still, but I nod toward the kitchen. “It should be in the junk drawer next to the stove.”
“Cool, thanks, Dani.” He goes back inside.
I slump back into my chair, thinking I should’ve asked Malcolm to grab me a beer while he’s inside. If I can’t figure shit out sober, maybe I can do it drunk.
* * *
Troy
I stand outside Ed Senior’s office, Arky at my side. He stares up at me with his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth, panting.
“I don’t have anything for you, bud.” I scratch his ears.
Ed starts shouting. I hear threats against the Vorsongs, against SEPD, against the Aseyevs. Then he yells, “Out!”
A second later, Caleb Morraine emerges. Not Edmund.
I raise my eyebrows. “Sounds fun in there.”
“Shut up.” He shoulders past me.
I almost feel bad for him. When he got back to San Esteban a couple hours ago, Edmund and I interrogated him hard until he explained some of Dani’s family had shown up.
I still think he should’ve stayed at her cabin.
While being out of town is the best thing for Dani right now, I’m not there to protect her.
I want someone else to be, even if it’s this jackass.
Arky stares a long time at Caleb’s retreating back, so I do, too.
There’s more conversation going on in Ed Senior’s office. A group of them are talking: Ed’s buddy, Victor Shaffer; Edmund’s grandfather, Francis; Ed Senior; and Edmund, of course. They’re discussing strategy to deal with the Vorsongs.
If they were smart, they’d bring in some of the Aseyevs for this conversation.
I lean back, patient. I don’t care if I’m in there or not.
It’s a lot of bullshit from Edmund’s dad.
Francis is the one who really runs the show.
You know how I know? Because he doesn’t make a whole production out of it.
The weak guys, the ones without power, are always the loudest. If you’re strong, you don’t have to shout.
You don’t even have to fucking repeat yourself.
Say it once, say it quiet. Others will listen.
My phone buzzes and I snatch it from my pocket. Dani’s name appears on the screen. She’s texting Edmund and me at the same time. Hey, I’m just checking in because you two bossypants men told me to.
I grin. You don’t miss us, even a little?
Nope. I hate you as much as ever .
A text comes in from Edmund. Hate u 2, princess .
My smile grows as I imagine her scowling at the abbreviations, so I add, Can’t wait 2 c u again. Will spank u til u can’t sit .
She sends back a gif of an Academy of Ghosts character overturning a desk and stomping away.
I think I love this girl.