Page 103 of Pretty Little Threats

He doesn’t chastise me.

He doesn’t tell me I’m being dramatic.

He simply sits with me through the pain.

And, eventually, when the tears dry and my body is left exhausted, I apologize for crying all over him.

Dare grips my chin. “I miss my parents every day.”

I don’t know when I started believing him, but the man holding me now isn’t capable of killing those he loves. Though he’d murder to keep them safe, he’d never hurt his family.

“Never apologize for feeling, Rose. It’s what makes you human.” He brushes his lips against mine in a chaste kiss. “What do you need?”

You. But I don’t know if I’m ready to admit that. Everything I was raised to believe wars with everything I’ve learned. Avoiding the conflicting emotions, I wrap my arms around him and breathe him in. “Thisis perfect.”

It’s been weeks since I’ve been home longer than a few minutes to grab new clothes. Although the place is sparkling clean and the air lemon-scented, thanks to the company that comes by every week, the vibe is different. I used to walk in and instantly relax, but now I keep glancing toward the stairs, expecting Eric to appear.

There’s been no noise from his death. Whoever Dare worked with to cover up his murder is good at their job.

Avoiding the kitchen, I head to my bedroom and grab my favorite picture of Mom before retreating into the guest suite that also functions as my creative space. The curtains are already drawn, and I light a candle to chase away the bad vibes before settling into the oversized chair by the wooden shelves full of sketch pads and books.

Mom smiles up at me from the frame. Her brunette hair is a few shades darker than my own. Her eyes are a striking shade of blue, whereas mine are hazel, like Dad’s. I have Mom’s nose and mouth, though. There are shadows in her gaze, something I’ve never really noticed before. There’s something uneasy in the way she smiles at the camera. Almost like she’s putting on a performance.

Just like me.

Who is it for?

I’m frustrated with the only person who might know, but I can suck up my pride and send a text to get some answers. Grabbing my phone from my pocket, I snap a picture of it.

Rose

Hey, Dad. Hope you’re doing well. I found this picture of Mom and was wondering who took it.

The phonewhooshesas the message sends.

I gaze at the photo again. My fingers ache to draw her. I throw on my favorite moody playlist. I grab a half-empty sketch pad and a few pencils and get to work.

The first line on the paper is wrong. I rip it out and throw it on the floor and start again. This time, I manage to get the face shape right, but the first line placement for the eyes is all wrong. Huffing, I tear that paper out and crumple it and try again.

Attempt after attempt, and none of them are even close to good enough.

The face is too long. Too wide. The curve of the mouth. The tip of the nose. The space between the eyes. Everything is wrong. Growling, I rip out what must be my twelfth version and fling the sketchbook across the room.

It’s a face. I’ve drawn them hundreds of times. It shouldn’t be so hard. Picking up Mom’s picture, I chew on my cheek and try to figure out what I’m doing wrong. Logic says, if I follow the techniques I’ve spent years perfecting, bit by bit, the portrait will come together, but I’m struggling with the simple foundations.

My phone buzzes. Sighing, I set Mom’s picture aside and grab the device, fighting the immediate urge to curl my lip in annoyance.

Dad

Rosie! I’m doing good, but I miss seeing you every day. I took that photo of your mom on a vacation.

Any updates I should be aware of?

The truth is, there’s not a lot to be found, and each day that passes, I’m less inclined to find something to use against Dare. A month ago, I would’ve naturallyassumed he’s simply lured me into his trap. But weeks ago, things between us stopped feeling like a game.

The way he held me earlier today was real. Raw.

Dad is threatening to disinherit me, but if he really loved me, would he hold something like that over my head? There’s tough love, and then there’s manipulative love. I’ve been grappling with what to think about the man who raised me. On the one hand, I love him. He’s my dad. He was always there. On the other, time after time, he’s proven that I can’t trust him, while he expects me to remain his faithful companion. He expects me to tell him my every little secret.

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