13. Rowan #2
I turn toward the mirror. The gown fits well enough to make the price tag threatening, but the neckline is too formal and the color makes me look younger than I am. "Why?"
"You look like a student attending someone else's event." Liya comes closer and adjusts the fabric near my shoulder.
"I am a student attending someone else's event."
"You're missing the assignment."
I look at her reflection. "I thought the assignment was not getting shot."
"That's Makari's assignment." Liya steps away with complete seriousness.
I laugh before I can stop myself.
She waits until I'm done. "Your assignment is to walk into the room beside Erik without looking borrowed."
My amusement disappears. "I'm not an accessory."
"No." Liya takes the next dress from the stylist. "That's why this matters."
I change into the first black gown. It's elegant, expensive, and conservative enough for a judicial dinner. Liya rejects it before I finish looking at myself.
The second black dress has a slit high enough that Callie would demand photographic evidence before allowing me to leave the house. I reject it myself.
The third leaves most of my back bare.
I stay partly behind the screen. "No."
Liya looks up from her phone. "Why?"
"My back is naked."
"That is generally what backless means." She goes back to the screen without sympathy.
"I'm aware of the terminology."
The stylist makes a heroic effort not to laugh.
I step out anyway and turn toward the mirror. The dress is dark silk, simple from the front, and cut close through my waist before falling straight to the floor. The back drops low enough that every bra I own becomes irrelevant.
I reach behind me and pull at the fabric as if effort might create another inch.
Liya comes to stand beside me. "That one."
"No."
"You look twenty-four instead of fourteen."
I turn my head toward her. "I did not look fourteen in the blue dress."
"You looked like a donor's daughter who had been instructed to stay near the table."
"I am a donor's nightmare."
Liya's mouth curves briefly. "That is closer to what we need."
I look back at the mirror. "I'm not wearing a dress because Orell might assign meaning to it."
"He'll assign meaning to whatever you wear." Liya walks toward the jewelry cabinet and checks one of the drawers.
"That's his problem."
"It becomes yours when he uses the answer." She closes the drawer and turns toward me again.
I leave the mirror to face her. "Showing up in something I'd normally wear isn't weakness."
"No." Liya takes a few steps toward me. "Deliberately underdressing because you want everyone to know you don't care is still performing for them. You should wear what serves your purpose and remain exactly the same person inside it."
I hate how much harder that answer is to dismiss.
The private fitting-room door opens without a knock before I can respond.
Erik walks in.
I stare at him through the mirror. "Do Danilovs understand doors?"
Liya returns to her chair. "Not consistently."
Erik ignores her and stops several feet behind me. He looks over the dress once, slowly enough that heat moves across my skin before he gets anywhere near me.
I turn enough to see him directly. "No."
"I didn't say anything." He keeps his distance.
"You were going to."
"I was going to say that one works." His attention returns to my face.
Liya lifts one hand toward me without looking up from her phone. "I told her."
"This is a conspiracy."
Erik comes closer, though he leaves enough space that I still control whether he stands behind me. "You don't like it?"
"I don't like being dressed according to Orell's expectations."
"That isn't why I like it."
I meet his gaze in the mirror. "Why do you like it?"
His attention moves briefly to the open back before he answers. "You know why."
Unfortunately, I do.
Liya stands and heads toward the outer room. "I'm going to speak to the stylist about shoes."
I turn toward her before she reaches the door. "You're abandoning me."
"I'm protecting myself from a conversation I don't want to hear." She closes the door behind her.
I face Erik. "Your sister is a coward."
"She's selective." He comes close enough to touch the fabric near my waist, though he waits until I don't move away.
"That is not better."
His fingers rest briefly against the silk. "Wear this one."
"You sound very sure."
"I am." He looks at the dress rather than pretending otherwise.
I turn toward him. "I'm not accepting a six-thousand-dollar dress from you."
"It isn't six."
I stare at him.
Erik has the sense not to tell me the actual price.
"That made it worse."
"You're not accepting it." He steps away from the dress. "The foundation is providing wardrobe for the event."
"That sounds like accounting fraud."
"It's event security."
I look down at myself. "How does my dress protect anyone?"
"It tells the room you walked in with me." Erik's answer is immediate.
"I can accomplish that by entering through the same door."
His expression changes slightly. "That isn't enough in this room."
I start to fold my arms, then stop when the fabric protests. "Explain."
Erik takes a moment before answering. "Orell has spent three weeks testing whether you're temporary and whether I can be embarrassed through you. He also wants to know whether pressure makes me push you away. Saturday is the first time he sees us together in my world."
"That still doesn't explain the dress."
"It tells him you weren't brought in at the last minute. You were prepared for the room." Erik leaves the answer there instead of demanding I accept it.
I look at the silk again.
The explanation is reasonable enough to irritate me.
Erik crosses to the jewelry case, opens one drawer, and removes a velvet box. He brings it back before I can ask what else the foundation apparently considers security equipment.
I point at the box. "No."
"You haven't seen it."
"You took it from a locked jewelry case. I know enough."
He opens the lid.
Diamonds lie in a simple line against black velvet.
I look from them to him. "Absolutely not."
"You're wearing it." Erik keeps the box between us.
"I am not wearing a necklace worth more than Mom's house."
His brief pause tells me the estimate is probably low. "Probably."
"Erik."
"You don't have to accept it." He removes the necklace from the box.
"That sentence had promise."
"You have to wear it."
I stare at him long enough that amusement almost wins on his face. "This is exactly why I keep accusing you of being controlling."
"This is presentation."
"This is a mortgage around my neck."
"It belongs to the foundation." He walks behind me with the necklace.
I watch him in the mirror. "You are not solving this argument by putting it on me."
"No." Erik stops and waits.
That is the problem.
A few weeks ago, he would have decided the necklace was necessary and closed it around my neck while explaining why. Now he stands behind me holding both ends, leaving the choice where I keep demanding he put it.
I turn toward the mirror and lift my hair. "I'm wearing it for the room."
"I know." Erik steps closer only after I give him access.
"You don't get to count this as winning."
"I wouldn't."
I glance at his reflection. "That answer is suspicious."
His fingers brush the back of my neck while he fastens the clasp. The contact is brief and careful, yet my entire argument disappears for several seconds while he checks it and moves my hair back into place.
I watch him in the mirror, and he watches me in return. Neither of us needs to say anything about why his hand remains near my shoulder an instant longer than necessary.
The door opens before I decide whether I want him to touch me again.
Liya comes back carrying shoes. She stops after one step and takes in Erik beside me, the necklace, and whatever is showing on my face. "I assume the necklace discussion went well."
"It did not." I lower my hair completely.
Erik moves away from me. "She's wearing it."
Liya sets the shoes near the mirror. "That isn't the same statement."
I point at her. "Thank you."
"I didn't say you won."
I reconsider my gratitude.
The message arrives before we're halfway back to Connecticut.
Liya is taking a call in the front of the SUV, leaving me alone in the rear seat when an unknown number sends a photograph to my phone.
I recognize Erik first.
He stands outside a warehouse beside Peter. The warehouse number is visible near the loading door, with enough of the street sign in frame for me to identify the location. The timestamp says the photograph was taken four days ago.
Peter has the shipping folder under his arm.
Erik is looking directly at him.
I enlarge the image and identify the warehouse name. It appears twice in Aaron's notes, so I search the property through public records and compare the address against the Zaitsev vendor list Harper and I built.
It matches.
The photograph proves only that Erik and Peter stood outside a warehouse tied to the laundering route four days ago. The timing is what bothers me.
Peter had already taken the folder.
Erik had already told me he didn't know where Peter was keeping it.
I check the front seat. Liya is still on her call when the unknown number sends a second message.
Ask Vanessa why Peter was there.
I call Vanessa.
She answers after four rings. "What?"
"You sent me a photograph." I watch traffic slide past the window while I wait for her answer.
A short pause comes through the line. "I didn't send you anything."
I sit straighter. "I didn't say what the photograph showed."
This pause lasts longer.
Vanessa recovers badly. "You call me every time somebody sends you something now?"
"I've never called you about an anonymous message." I pull the photograph back onto the screen. "Who gave you the picture?"
"I already said I didn't send it." She's trying to make irritation do the work of an answer.
"That wasn't my question."
The call disconnects.
I stare at the screen for several seconds before calling Harper.
She answers quickly. "Are you still in Manhattan?"