Page 8 of Treasured by Them (Rose and Dagger #3)

Danica

I have a dress! I text Edmund and Troy, first. Then I text the same to Leah, along with a photo my mom took of me wearing the gown I chose. I feel a little guilty that Leah wasn’t there when I picked the dress, but when she calls me immediately, I explain.

Luckily, her feelings aren’t hurt. “We don’t have time for hurt feelings. Your wedding is in two freaking weeks!”

“I still can’t believe it.” I sit cross-legged on my bed next to Cackle. “I go between heck yes and hell to the fuck no. This is insane, isn’t it?”

“A little. But if you’re happy…are you happy?”

“I’ll be happy that the Vorsongs aren’t killing off the people I love.” I pause. “And Edmund isn’t so bad.”

“How about Troy?” she teases.

I sigh and pet Cackle, who tucks his head into my knee. “I like them both, if I’m honest.”

“Then you should have them.” She says the words in such an authoritative tone, I almost believe her.

She’s my best friend, my oldest friend. Which means…

“Hey, Leah?”

“Yeah?”

“Were we friends that summer I went to camp at Danish Lake?”

“I don’t know—we started hanging out in fourth grade, right? Or was it fifth?”

I try to think back. “Were we ever not friends?”

She laughs. “Probably not. But why do you ask?”

“Just thinking about all the Britney Gardner stuff. I think I knew her. I think…this is crazy. But I might know about her death. I just can’t remember anything.”

“Whoa.” Leah’s quiet for so long, I wonder if the call dropped. Then she adds, “I don’t remember much about her going missing, and I don’t think we were spending a lot of time together that summer. But if there’s anything I can do or help you with, let me know. Want me to ask Dmitri?”

“No—definitely not. He’ll just worry. I’ll go through my old scrapbook and see if it jogs any memories.”

“If you’re sure…”

“I am. Thanks, Leah.” I redirect the conversation to her maid of honor dress, which I let her pick out.

She and my cousin Rachel, who will be a bridesmaid, decided to go with royal blue.

Sounds fine to me. Maybe I’m one of those brides who doesn’t care about the details.

Or maybe, if the wedding felt like something I was choosing to do, I’d care more.

In the end, it doesn’t matter too much whether I care, or why I care. It’s happening. I’ll get up at the front of the church next to Edmund and say I do .

Once Leah and I say goodbye, I grab my scrapbook from the bottom drawer of the dresser. It’s fairly small, only about nine inches square. Incredible how I can feel mildly panicky just holding it in my hands.

I stare intently at the torn-off remains of the cover photo. All that’s left are my pink and black tennis shoes and the bottoms of my legs. The lake in the background. Shade-dappled grass in the foreground. Am I standing with friends? Maybe I got mad at them and tore the photo because of that?

Who was I friends with at camp? It wasn’t Leah. Pretty sure I would remember her there, or she would have remembered when I asked about it.

Whatever. I open the scrapbook to the first page. I see photos of people I don’t recognize. Who’s that girl with the braces? She’s showing up in quite a few of my photos. I come across one where I’m in a row boat with her and a boy, the sun blinding us so our eyes are squinched up tight.

I flip through more pages, frustrated. Why did I think I’d find answers here? There’s nothing. I don’t remember these people.

I have to focus on my breathing. Slow. Deep. There’s nothing scary here, just a bunch of repressed memories.

And the lake. Page by page, the lake in the morning.

The lake in the afternoon. The muddy beach with a campfire going next to it.

The sun glinting off the surface, swimmers in the distance.

All angles—up close, and far away. So many photos of the lake.

I must have been obsessed with it. I keep going, stopping at some truly terrible selfies of me with the girl in braces.

She has strawberry-blond hair and a quarter-sized birthmark on one side of her face.

It’s in one of the selfies that I notice people in the background.

There—Britney Gardner. Dark, curly hair. In the photo, she’s talking to someone out of the frame. The photo of her that was splashed all over the media showed a wide smile and twinkling brown eyes. Here, she looks serious, almost angry.

At least now I know I didn’t imagine being at camp with her. This photo is proof.

I continue through the scrapbook, hoping to find another photo of her. There’s nothing. I mutter a curse under my breath.

Giving up on the scrapbook, I snag my phone and do a search for Britney. More of those images of her smiling face. She died at twenty-one, a couple years younger than I am now. It’s not fucking fair.

I click over to the Wikipedia entry on her disappearance. It’s since been updated with news of the remains, but I’m more interested in the story told by the article.

Under the heading “Search and Investigation,” it goes into how her brother, Brendan Gardner, was under suspicion.

This part of her disappearance is coming back to me now.

Even though I was young and my parents tried to shelter me from the news, everyone was talking about how her brother was in love with her.

It was twisted—allegations of incest, grotesque narratives.

The article says he left San Esteban a few months after she disappeared—he left the country as soon as the police gave him the go-ahead.

Apparently, many people saw that as “proof” he’d killed her and hidden her body.

I didn’t know exactly what was going on at the time. I was eight. But I do remember thinking Brendan did it. Even when the police shared that he had an alibi for the night she disappeared.

Damn, this is fucked up. I wonder where he is now.

I drop my phone on the bed and pick up my scrapbook again.

Looking through a second time tells me nothing, unfortunately.

I should probably toss the whole thing. My chest feels tight.

I don’t like thinking about any of this shit, so why should I bother?

It isn’t going to bring Britney back. Fifteen years have gone by.

Whoever killed her is probably in prison for an unrelated offense.

Remembering more details now will only hurt me; no good will come of it.

The scrapbook goes back into my dresser and I slam the drawer shut.

* * *

Edmund

Gary, the manager of Finch and Fox, orders me a scotch and Troy a water. He slides into the booth across from the two of us. “Glad you’re here, Mr. Layton. Mr. Manchester. As you can see, the restaurant’s doing well. Thriving, even!”

I glance around us at the crowded dining room. The private room was booked, so we’re out in the open tonight. Not how I prefer to do business, but as I don’t have to issue any threats tonight, I can deal.

The option to visit after the kitchen closed was available, but I don’t want to be out that late. I’d rather get home sooner, spend more time with Danica.

And not just to fuck her, either—although fucking her is a transcendent experience. I want to hold her, too. I want to say something amusing and watch her smile. I want to hear her shrieking as Troy lifts her up and tosses her into the pool fully clothed.

And then, yeah, I want to hear her screaming as we fuck her against the side of the pool.

It often comes back around to fucking, but that isn’t the only thing I want to do with her.

“Here are your drinks.” A female server drops off my scotch and Troy’s water. Her blond hair is so light, it reminds me of Danica’s. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

“Thanks, Kara, but we’re all right.” Gary waves her off. “You have plenty of other tables to take care of. I think table thirty-two is ready for their check.”

Kara nods and hurries away. We get to work as the restaurant slowly empties of its patrons.

Gary opens an app on his tablet and proudly shows off the recent strides Finch and Fox has been making.

He outlines further plans for improvement.

I nod and sip my scotch, wondering how much longer we have to sit here. I want to get home to Danica.

The restaurant is almost empty. The diners are gone, and Kara and a bartender busy themselves with closing tasks. Pretty soon, Kara finishes and gives the bartender a quick hug before leaving through the kitchen.

“I don’t know how you would feel about this,” Gary says, “but if we continue on this trajectory, we could potentially open up a second restaurant, maybe in Fair Heights.”

He goes on about the potential benefits while my eyes glaze over. A shriek from the kitchen interrupts his monologue. I’m almost grateful for the interruption.

Troy jumps to his feet and I follow. The bartender freezes, his gaze locked on the back door through the kitchen. Then he drops the rag he was using and races toward it.

Kara, the server, crouches against the doorway leading to the alley. She covers her face, sobbing. I hate seeing her cry, particularly because she reminds me so much of Danica. Stop feeling so much, Edmund .

“Hey, what is it?” The bartender wraps his arms around her. “What happened?”

Kara shakes her head and sucks in great, huge gasps. “There’s a—there’s a body out there. It’s—it’s horrible.”