Page 131 of Pretty Little Threats

Donation.

Soon enough, almost every hanger and drawer is empty, and there’s a giant pile in the middle of my bedroom floor.

Everything reminds me of him.

Even the sweatpants still sitting on the back shelf. Huffing, I grab them but pause when a lacquered box they were hiding catches my attention. The wedding box Mom left forme. The only thing of hers I got to keep because Dad didn’t know about it.

My hands tremble and the sweats tumble from my fingers. The box is heavy as I lift it from the shelf like the finest crystal vase. Slowly sitting, I tuck my legs beneath me and place the box on the closet floor.

“This is a special box, just for you.” Mommy shows me the black box with a little lock keeping it closed.

My eyes widen. “Is it a present?”

“Something like that, but you have to promise me not to open it until you’re married, when you have a husband of your own to protect you.”

“Like Daddy?”

She pauses, but I’m too focused on the box to notice the pain in her eyes. “Just like Daddy,” she says, voice hoarse. “But this box is for the women of our family. It’s a secret we keep from the boys. Otherwise, we might never find true love.”

“I can keep secrets,” I say quickly.

“Do you promise me, Rosie?”

“I promise.”

Throat tight and face hot, I run my palm over the top of the box. Now that I know everything, the pause in that memory carries more weight. I wish I had looked at her face. I wish we’d had more time. My heart is hollow as I think about everything I’ve lost.

Catching the lock between two fingers, I frown. She never gave me the key. The lock isn’t anything fancy. I can probably pry it open. A quick trip to the junk drawer to grab a screwdriver and pliers, and then I’m back.

Oxygen is suspended in my lungs as I try the pliers on the lock first, but I definitely need more leverage. The tool should add enough pressure. Grunting, I push down with the screwdriver, my wrist muscles tightening, and pull atthe metal loop of the lock with the pliers, but it’s not as flimsy as I thought.

That’s fine. I’ll pry the clasp off the box instead. The tip of the screwdriver wedges between the clasp and the lacquer. It takes a minute, but eventually, the little nails pop free and the clasp flies through the air, landing on the carpet with a soft thunk. I drop the tools and open the box.

The inside is covered in soft, navy-blue velvet. There are a few pieces of jewelry. Silk gloves. A silver hair comb with inlaid diamonds. But the envelopes catch my attention. The one on top has my name scrawled across it in that same elegant looping script from the documents Orion showed me.

My breath catches. I grab it first and carefully open it, preserving the envelope because it’s one of the last things I have from her.

The parchment with dried flowers is delicate. I lift it to my nose and inhale. Touches of jasmine. The same perfume I smelled every time I hugged her. Swallowing around the grief clogging my throat, I carefully open the note, tears burning and hands shaking as I read the words Mom wrote for me.

My sweet Rosie.

I hope you kept your promise and waited to open this until you were married to a husband who would protect you. My mother gave me this marriage box and her mother gave it to her. I left you my grandmother’s hair comb. My mother’s favorite bracelets, and some of my most treasured jewelry. The ring is your birthstone.

A memory of my greatest gift from the world.

You’re such a clever little girl, so full of fire and hope. You inspire me every day.

Do you love yourhusband?

Does he treat you well?

Marriage in our world is...complicated. It’s not always beautiful, but my hope is that you found something special.

There are a few wet spots that smear the ink—some are fresh, but others are old. Mom cried when she wrote this letter. Sniffing, I swipe my cheeks and keep reading, holding the paper up, so I don’t continue to destroy the note.

There are other things I left you, Rosie. You can’t tell your father, but I trust that, once you see the information, you will have people you can go to for help. My friend Ellen Richardson is trustworthy. She’ll know what to do.

It’s my hope that you and I have many years together. That I get to see you graduate. That I get to see you grow into the beautiful woman I know you’ll be, but I fear my time will be cut short.

---