Page 44 of Treasured By Them
“Now,” he says, “tell me what you want to tell Edmund. How would you check in at the end of the day?”
I gasp against the pain. My fingers have gone numb in his tight grip, but the pain throbs throughout my wrist and the rest of my arm.
“Danica. Tell me. Now.”
“I’d um…I’d say good night. I’d ask him how his day went. I’d tell him about what I did.” I suck in a deep breath. “Please, Malcolm. I don’t know why you’re doing this.”
“Yes, you do. Although I hoped you’d forgotten.” He types into my phone while I watch. Hey, I’m going to bed. I hope your day was good. I did some reading and journaling. Goodnight.
“Good?” he asks.
“Almost.” I clear my throat. “I’d add ILY.”
“What’s ILY?”
“Text shorthand. For I love you.”
He types it in and nods, satisfied. “There. Now he won’t worry. Don’t you feel better? Let’s take out the canoe, see the lake beneath the stars.”
16
Edmund
I wonder if that shitshow of a conversation at Rendsell accomplished anything. My grandfather was quietly furious. My father vocally furious.
I’m somewhere in between. How dare Tate Vorsong show up at Vice and touch Danica, much less talk to her.
When I get him alone, I will take great pleasure in plucking every finger from the hand that touched my bride. I’d feed them to Arky, but Arky deserves better than anything associated with the Vorsongs.
Now back at the penthouse, I take a glass of scotch to the balcony and look out over the city. The Salding district is my home, always has been. It’s the best of San Esteban. Maybe not the most polished, maybe not the most coveted neighborhood.
But it’s mine.
The alcohol is sharp yet smooth over my tongue. Faint sounds of traffic float up from the street below. If I squint hard, I can see a star or two above me. They’re more likely airplane lights, but I’d rather think they’re stars.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I hope it’s Danica. I’m a fool for this girl, and I don’t even care.
Sure enough, she texted. Hey, I’m going to bed. I hope your day was good. I did some reading and journaling. Goodnight. ILY.
I stare at the message. It’s a lot more generic than what she usually writes. In fact, it doesn’t sound like her at all.
Still, I might not have noticed. Except for that final part. ILY.
I write back, Where are you? Still at the cabin?
No response.
Maybe she was just messing with me. She is a brat, after all. Would it be like her to complain over me using text shorthand, and then she turns around and does the very same thing?
No. No, it would not.
Panic threatens to choke me. I’ll burn down the whole world, myself in it, if something has happened to her.
My father’s voice echoes in my head. You always feel too goddamn much.
I can’t help it. This is Danica. With her impish smile, her intelligent eyes, her insatiable lust for life, her incredible kindness.
Her endearing hatred of abbreviated text speak.
