Page 34 of Treasured By Them
They care about me. I care about them, too. But this is a lot, and my cheek still feels violated, so I turn on the shower faucet and strip out of my shoes and underwear.
Troy starts taking off his shirt.
I shake my head. “I don’t want to fuck around right now.”
“Can I just get in there with you?”
If I said no, he would listen. He’d give me space. He’d let me be.
Suddenly, I don’t want that. “Yes.”
He strips down. He’s sporting a semi, but since he ignores it, I do, too. I get under the spray and reach for my foaming face soap.
“Let me.” Troy gently pries the bottle from my grasp, squirts soap into his hand, and tilts my head back. “Which cheek?”
I point. He dabs the soap over my cheek, then massages it in. It’s probably good he’s the one doing this job, because if it were me, I’d be grabbing a pumice stone or a nail file to sand down my skin.
“What did he look like?” Troy asks.
He’s asking about the Vorsong guy.
Stifling a shudder, I close my eyes and try to focus on Troy’s careful fingertips as he rubs in the soap. “Brown hair, slicked back. Expensive suit. He had heavy eyebrows. I couldn’t tell what color his eyes were.”
“Mustache?”
“No.”
“Muscular, or skinny?”
“Muscular. He had on a suit. It looked expensive.”
His hand hesitates its circular motion on my cheek. “Probably Tate.”
I mentally file away the info. Their names are meaningless—I don’t know who any of the Vorsongs are. Hell, I don’t know the names of half the guys Granddad associates with. As a kid, I called them all “uncle.”
“Ready to rinse off?” Troy asks.
I put my face in the water, allowing it to wash away all traces of Probably Tate, all traces of the soap. But Troy’s touch remains—he’s replaced the bad memory with something good, with the feeling of him protecting me, caring for me, clearing away the ickiness of the assault.
When we step out of the shower, a thud sounds from my room. It’s too loud to be Cackle, unless he’s learned how to move furniture. Troy doesn’t look concerned as he passes me a towel.
“What was that?” I ask.
“Just me.” Edmund peers around the doorway. He glances up and down my naked body, eyes appreciative even after I wrap the towel around myself. “I got your suitcase out for you. Anything special you want to bring?”
My heart thaws by a couple of degrees. I can tell he doesn’t want me to leave, but he’s still taking care of me. Both of them are, but I’d thought Edmund was too angry.
“Comfy clothes. My diaries. Cackle.”
“Oh, no, Cackle’s staying here with us.” He winks. “Troy and I are going to spoil the shit out of him since we can’t spoil you.”
I look past him, to where Cackle is sprawled out on my bed on his back, looking like he has just experienced the most exhausting day of his life. “Obviously he could use a little spoiling.”
While I get dressed, Edmund fills up my suitcase. He pauses at my diaries and holds up the camp scrapbook. “This, too?”
“Yeah.” I’m going to look through it again, see if I can’t find any clues. I don’t say it out loud, though—I feel stupid enough already for wasting my time, and the police department’s time. I’m pretty sure eight-year-old me didn’t happen to catch the murder on my camera. Not even in the reflection of the lake. But who knows? Something tells me to keep trying.
Edmund gestures at the filled suitcase. “Okay, you’re all set.”
