Page 68 of A Very Addicted Christmas

I want all the information tonight, and I can’t split myself in two, let alone in three. The girls and Xander were told to wait here until they were picked up, instead of walking down the street and going home alone.

According to our group text thread, Lily, Daisy, Ryke, and Garrison have already picked up their kids and left. Willow and Lo have been stuck in traffic.

Ben and Audrey have been instructed not to leave this house.

I run a hand over my wavy hair, smoothing it back as we step through our sliding glass door into the living room. The glass table is shattered beyond repair.

Rose intakes a sharp breath and releases my hand.

“Don’t jump to conclusions, darling,” I say evenly as I shed my jacket, folding it over my arm.

“My conclusion is that the table is fucking broken,” she says. “Are you telling me that’s inaccurate?”

Her blistering gaze bores into me combatively, and under different circumstances, I’d be taking her upstairs to fuck her until her glare burned me alive.

“Your worry is written in your breathing pattern,” I say. “That’s the conclusion I’m trying to smother.”

“I’d rather smother you in your sleep.”

I’m grinning.

She makes a low growl in her throat, but it’s accompanied by a dry smile. “Stop.”

I watch her touch the handle of a broom, illustrating that someone attempted to clean the glass but did a poor job and never remotely finished.

I squat to the broken glass. “There isn’t any blood.”

She stiffens. “It was a drunken high school party, not a UFC match. Of course there was no blood.” Only, maternal concern suddenly pierces her eyes. “We need to find themnow.”

I scan the neat bookshelves as I rise. “Nothing else seems destroyed.”

“That we know of.” She sets the broom back, and we head into the kitchen together. I have many questions about tonight, but none come before the safety of our children.

Rose screeches to a halt when we crest the kitchen door.

Flour. Everywhere. Coating the marble counters and floors. A thin layer of the baking product floats in the air, as though it’s been recently disturbed. Several dishtowels are heaped near the sink, and someone left out a spray bottle of Lysol.

They attempted to clean their mess.

“What the hell,” Rose says under her breath. While we're still in the doorway, she bends down carefully in her dress, just to pinch a torn, emptied bag of flour off the ground. She straightens up and holds it out like a dirty diaper. “Audrey doesn’t maul her baking products. Ever.”

“It wasn’t Audrey,” I agree in a whisper. Our daughter’s baking is almost scientifically neat and orderly.

Rose’s eyes flame. “What kind of so-calledfriendsdid they let inside?” She drops the ripped bag, and that’s when we hear hushed, nearly inaudible voices echoing from behind the large marble island.

We go silent to listen.

“You don’t have to lie for me,” Ben whispers. “I don’t want you to take the blame.”

“But I caneasilycover for you,” Audrey whisper-hisses.

“They already don’t believe it was you.”

Rose eyes me, like she’s ready to pounce, and I hold up a finger to wait a moment. She crosses her arms and looks like she would rather rip my finger off my hand.Another time.

“I can convince them I was baking my friends some cookies,” Audrey whispers, “and I just ripped the bag of flour.”

Rose rolls her eyes.

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