Page 115 of Because I Killed Him
“Yep.Redblood.” Dickie grins. “As a thoughtful man, I snapped a picture for you.” He activates his Bond, flips through the camera roll, then freezes. His eyes bug out. “What the devil? It’sspoiled.”
“Yeah, because photographing the spur isn’t allowed,” Jack says. He picks up a whiskey bottle, adds a splash to his coffee, then, as if deciding he doesn’t want to get drunk on Edmund’s birthday, pushes the cup away. “The display box has an onboard AI. It detects cameras and triggers a distortion field.”
Dickie’s head snaps toward Jack. “No photos? Why the devil not?”
“Because if images of the spur are online, people will stop lining up to see it.”
Edmund spears a poached pear with his fork, his eyebrows slanting downward as he leans back against the couch. He loosens his bow tie withhis thumb, disappointment flashing across his face before he smooths it away. The depth of his feeling surprises me. I never thought of him as someone who cared about the Rangers.
A buzz vibrates in my ears. I check the name blinking on my Bond screen, and my heart skips a beat.Vivian.After ignoring me for days, there’s only one reason she’d be calling now. Coquette must’ve arrived.
I’m eager to see her reaction, but I know that if I answer now, she could catch a glimpse of Edmund in my feed. Instead, I text, “Can’t talk right now. I’ll call you back.”
Charlotte and I both order small meals, so we can eat fast and get out before Edmund resumes accepting visitors. Halfway through the meal, Dickie hauls a bulky package onto the table and slides it toward Edmund.
“Stop feasting your belly and feast youreyes.”
Edmund sets his knife and fork parallel at five o’clock on his plate, a cue for a Pinkie to clear it. As a robot whisks it away, Dickie inches closer to the package, vibrating with excitement, like he might rip the paper open himself if Edmund doesn’t move fast enough.
When Edmund finally does, I see why. The gift is a custom riding outfit, straight from Lemon’s workshop: leather breeches, a tailored vest, a riding hat, a crop, and boots. Dickie’s parents must be loaded.
“I used the measurements Lemon’s got on file. Should fit like a glove,” Dickie says.
Edmund smirks as he runs his thumb along the saddle stitching. “Hopefully not everywhere.”
Dickie huffs a laugh. “Don’t worry. Asked for a glove fit up top and a mercy fit below.” He leans back, arms hooked behind his head, and throws us a wink, as if daring us to top him.
Charlotte slides her gift across the table like a pool cue shot, her eyes fixed on the floor. She looks like she wants the moment over before it’s even begun.
Edmund seems to feel the same. He unwraps the gift without ceremony, gives the gold pocket watch chain a brief glance, then offers Charlotte a curt nod before handing it to a waiting Pinkie.
Jack is the only one who really notices. His eyes follow the chain, then cut sideways to Charlotte, as if he knows exactly how much it cost andwonders what the hell happened to the rest of the money he lent her.
“Happy birthday, Ed,” Jack says, tossing him a small velvet pouch.
Edmund catches the pouch and upends it over the table. Out falls a battered, dull tin spoon, bent slightly at the neck.
For a moment, he stares at the spoon, blinking slowly. Then recognition sparks, and he bursts into a loud, deep-chested laugh that knocks off the walls. The sound pulls Jack and Dickie into it until all three are doubled over, heads thrown back, shoulders clutched, red-faced and breathless.
I glance at Charlotte, silently asking what the spoon means. She arches an eyebrow, shrugs, and lights a cigarette.
I pull my gift from my purse, neatly wrapped in black-and-gold paper. I wait until the boys stop choking on their laughter and settle back into themselves before I place the small box in front of Edmund.
He looks down, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. When he notices the gift, my pulse slows. Anticipation builds like water rising behind a door. I want the badge to mean as much to him as Coquette meant to me.
Edmund dips his chin politely, but just as he reaches to open the gift, the door slams open with a bang so loud that Charlotte jumps in her seat.
“What the fu—”
Charlotte cuts off as Rosamund sweeps in, her monkey perched on her shoulder and a mountain of parcels balanced on her hip. Her perfume rolls in first, heavy with peony, and her lynx fur coat trails so far behind her that two Pinkies have to carry the hem.
“Happy birthday, Duke.” Rosamund beams at Edmund. She snaps her fingers, and the two Pinkies step forward with cannons, blasting confetti across the room. The monkey shrieks, leaps from her shoulder, and lands in Edmund’s lap. For a moment, the world dissolves in a burst of color. When the confetti settles, it’s everywhere: on the table, in our food and drinks, even down my dress.
“Hoppola. I hope I’m not interrupting,” Rosamund says, shaking confetti from her coat. Then she drops the parcels onto the table, right on top of my gift.
I frown. “Actually—”
“You, Miss Rosamund, areneveran interruption,” Dickie says, spitting a piece of confetti from his mouth and patting the empty seat beside him.
