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A slight discoloration runs along the top of Idril’s arm. At first, I think it’s a smudge. I try rubbing it with my finger, but when it doesn’t go anywhere, I tilt the photo for a better view.

My stomach drops.

It’s not a smudge. It’s a bruise in the shape of a hand.

Fates, she was thirteen years old! What kind of dick does that to his own child? She was so young. So small compared to him. How could he possibly⁠—

Dax snaps his fingers impatiently and reaches for the photo. I frown, suddenly unwilling to part with it. I wanted him to see what she’s been through, but this… it feels too personal.

Right when I’ve decided to make up an excuse as to why he can’t see it, he leans over and plucks it out of my hands.

He takes a cursory glance before handing it to Riven, and I exhale in relief.

But then he frowns and pulls it back, leaning in and squinting at the scene.

“It’s a shadow,” I lie.

“No, it’s not,” Dax argues, angling it in front of the sun like I had. “That’s⁠—”

His words cut off. His jaw ticks, and for a long minute he just sits there and stares at the hand-shaped bruise marring the pale skin of Idril’s arm.

Riven shoots me a questioning frown, but before I can explain, Daxen bends over, gathers the pictures off the floor, and shoves all of them—including the one in his hand—back into the manila envelope they came in.

“What are you⁠—”

“We can take them back with us,” Dax says, talking over me. “Look through them later. Or… something.”

He reaches across the floor, hooking the second box with his fingers and dragging it closer. It’s about the size of a large shoebox, and he lifts the lid, exposing an assortment of trinkets.

A scarf, a pendant, a tiny baby hat. Underneath it all is a journal. Bound in leather and tied with a silk burgundy ribbon.

Dax’s eyes light up, and he reaches for it, brushing non-existent dust from the cover.

“Dude, you can’t read that.” Riven makes a grab for it, but he’s not fast enough for Dax, who obviously anticipated one of us having morals.

“I can,” he argues. “There could be information in here we need. Information that might lead to rescuing all those missing Omegas. Frankly, if there’s anything that can save innocent lives, then propriety can get fucked. I’ll ask for forgiveness later.”

Riven doesn’t argue further, despite the clear disapproval on his face. I last a solid fifteen seconds after Dax turns to the first page, starts reading, and then stops.

Silently.

As in… to himself. In his head. Not out loud.

“Well…?! Whose is it? What’s it say?”

“It’s, ah—” he clears his throat, frowning down at the pages. “It’s Annalise’s. There aren’t many entries. It looks like she went months—even years, sometimes—without writing.”

“Start at the beginning,” Riven orders. “Out loud this time.”

“You can’t read that,” Dax mocks in a high-pitched voice.

“Just read, dipshit.”

Dax grins and flips the pages back to the start.

April Second,

Idril and I baked cookies today. She loves to bake. She says it’s like magic when all the ingredients mix and turn into treats. She was so happy, with flour all over her dress and face and her laughter in the air.