Page 5 of Treasured by Them (Rose and Dagger #3)

“I will,” I promise. Tomorrow. I’ll skip out of work and go dress-shopping.

Dress-shopping doesn’t need to be a big event.

And the dress doesn’t need to be perfect, either.

Perfection is the enemy of done, or whatever the saying is.

I’ll pick a gown that fits, be finished with the whole thing.

No more stress, no more procrastination.

I hug Malcolm goodbye and get my phone out of my pocket as I make my way to the tiny, spare bedroom.

I send a quick text to Isabelle, letting her know I have to take tomorrow off for wedding stuff.

She’s been very understanding of my chaotic schedule lately.

Sure enough, she texts back immediately to wish me good luck.

In my room, I go straight to a little bookshelf next to the bed. It’s full of random stuff I wanted to keep, but wasn’t important enough to haul off to college or to my rented house with Elias, Wallace, and Rita.

My old scrapbook is next to some notebooks that I probably don’t need. I snag them just in case. I’m looking for pictures from my summer camp at Danish Lake. If I can find some, maybe it’ll help jog my memory and I can unlock whatever happened to Britney.

The cover of my scrapbook used to have a photograph on it, but it’s been ripped away. Only the edge of water is visible, along with a pair of pink and black tennis shoes—that was probably me, posing in front of the lake. I must have torn the rest of the photo by accident.

Or on purpose? Already, I can feel my throat closing up with panic. If seeing just the edge of the photo causes this feeling, I imagine I would have gotten rid of the whole thing.

I wish I could remember. Britney’s killer has been out there for over a decade, living their life, and she’s been dead. Robbed of her adulthood.

I snag the album and notebooks, then nearly run into Mom on my way out of the room.

“You’re leaving already?” She frowns.

“Yeah, sorry. Early morning tomorrow.”

Her silver-blue eyes, so like my own, fill with sympathy. “Is it terrible, living with him?”

“With...Edmund?” I want to laugh. Now she’s concerned? “No, it’s not terrible. It’s actually…well, I like living with him. I like him.”

She wrinkles her nose. “You can be honest with me, Danica. You don’t need to spare my feelings. He’s a Layton. I know what they’re like.”

“First, he’s a good guy. A week ago, you were telling me he’s a good boy from a good family. Second, if you thought he was a bad guy, why marry me off to him?”

“I’m trying to make the most of it. We didn’t have a choice.”

“There’s always a choice.”

“Don’t talk back to me—” Loud laughter echoes from the other part of the house. Mom pinches the bridge of her nose like she’s trying to summon patience from her sinuses. “Now isn’t the time for this discussion.”

I shrug, indifferent. She’s the one who brought it up. “I have to go. See you later, Mom. Say bye to Dad, and tell Zora I can talk to her all about the wedding some other time, okay?”

“Sure.”

“And watch out for Ghyslaine. I think she drank all the rosé.”

Mom mutters a curse in Russian and hurries back to the party. Rather than fight my way through a living room crowded with people I barely know, I leave through the back door.

Dad and Malcolm stand on the deck. They jolt in surprise when the door slams closed behind me. Malcolm drops something on the ground. The thick scent of pot fills the air.

“Dad, really?” I shake my head in mock outrage. “You’re gonna get in trouble with Mom.”

He and Malcolm laugh, seemingly giddy at being caught, and Malcolm picks up the joint he dropped.

“You guys are worse than teenagers.”

They laugh louder.

Chuckling to myself, I adjust my scrapbook and notebooks under my arm and go out front.

A few guys from Granddad’s security team are stationed in the driveway. One of them leaves his post by the front porch to walk me to my car.

“Thanks,” I say as I climb inside, and he gives me a brief, professional nod.

I send a text to Edmund and Troy. Leaving now. When will you be back from Mirarosa?

Edmund texts back immediately. On our way. When u get home, take off ur clothes and get in my bed.

I only get naked for guys who spell things correctly in their texts , I write back. Before now, he’s always used regular spelling.

Yeah, in a hurry. R u being a brat?

I laugh and start my car.

The drive back to their place is easy. The parking garage spooks me a little, especially because I’m holding this scrapbook—something about it has my anxiety climbing higher. I won’t look through it tonight—I can’t.

When I get up to the penthouse, I stuff the scrapbook into the bottom drawer of my dresser. I get ready for bed and check my phone one more time.

Edmund texted again. Are you home?

Home. His apartment is starting to feel that way, especially with Cackle twining around my ankles and acting like he’s never been fed once in his whole entire life.

I write back, Yeah, I’m home. Thanks for spelling out “you.” Looks like you can be trained.

Trained? Make sure you’re all the way naked. Not a stitch of clothing. And text me a photo.

After feeding Cackle, who has apparently been starving for an eternity and a half, I find my winter clothes at the back of the dresser.

Everything is still organized because I just moved.

Give me a couple more weeks and I won’t be able to find anything—something about my dressers exacerbates the second law of thermodynamics—the natural tendency of things to move toward chaos.

I pull out my bulkiest sweater, a scarf, and a beanie. I put them on and jump onto Edmund’s bed before snapping a pic and sending it back to him.

He texts back one sentence. You’ll pay for that, brat.

I’m counting on it.