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life, but Kit was made of stronger stuff. She just needed to find him before he did something colossally stupid.
    And even if he did, she would not abandon him. Ever.

Chapter 3

     
    Duir Cottage
    Herefordshire, England
    February 18, 2014
     
    T hirteen yellow roses sat gracefully in the windowsill as Marc pulled up to Duir Cottage—their cheerful blooms mocking the seriousness of his current situation.
    Granted, the roses looked right at home with the honey-colored stone and thatched roof of the cottage. Ivy covered the fence surrounding the house, and an enormous old oak tree arched protectively over the entire building. The sunny yellow roses were just golden gilding on all the oozing English charm.
    Marc had arrived at Duir Cottage six days ago. Both Emme and James were currently in Seattle and had reacted to the blackmail threat much as Marc expected.
    James, laughing: “What a devilish mess. Adds a dash of excitement to everything, doesn’t it?”
    Emme, puzzled: “Are you sure this isn’t one of your friends’ ideas of a practical joke? Like they just made a super lucky guess?”
    Marc had no real answer for either of them.
    Unfortunately, Emme and James had an off-the-grid trek through Mongolia planned, starting the next week. And in Emme’s own words, “No blackmail traveling disaster is going to derail this trip. Period.”
    So . . . yeah. Emme and James would come straight back to Duir Cottage in March. In the meantime, Marc intended to uncover information about the blackmail and stall for time to sort out a solution.
    His efforts, so far, had been disappointing. The blackmail letter had been slipped into the post box and that was it. No more letters had arrived. No one suspicious had been seen lurking around the property. Google found no digital chatter anywhere about the portal.
    Just nothing. Not a single lead. All Marc could do was hope the blackmailer contacted them again.
    He hated waiting. Simply sitting around, everything on hold.
    Not cool.
    So after a couple restless days, he took the bait and purchased thirteen (obnoxiously chipper) yellow roses and placed them in the mullioned front window, just as the letter had directed. His attempt to flush out the blackmailer. The flowers waved an affectionate ‘hello’ every time he pulled up to the cottage, looking absurdly pleased with themselves.
    Why would a blackmailer choose yellow roses? It seemed so . . . friendly. Neighborly, even.
    He had pointed this out to Emme’s best friend, Jasmine, when she called to check up on things.
    “They’re worse than a puppy. So sunshiny. It’s like they want me to pet them or something,” he had said.
    Jasmine chuckled. “I would pay good money to see you pet roses—”
    “Jas . . .” Marc warned.
    “—but I hate to be the bearer of bad news. Yellow roses don’t always represent friendship. In many societies, they mean the exact opposite: treachery and death.” Trust Jasmine to set him straight. “Besides, there are thirteen of them. That’s never a good number of anything.”
    “Nice. So you’re telling me that my cheery roses secretly want to stab me in the back with their thorny claws?”
    “You have to admit, it would make for a great movie. You could call it Thorns of Menace .”
    Silence.
    “You think you’re hilarious, don’t you?” Marc made his voice suitably grumpy.
    “Absolutely.” Her laugh sounded tinny through the international phone connection. “Just imagine. You could dress up yellow roses in little dread-locked wigs and make them tiny chainsaws out of grass—”
    Marc had practically hung up on her.
    Stupid, stupid flowers.
    But even with the roses displayed as directed, there had been no more notes from the would-be blackmailer. Just complete radio silence.
    One more thing for his overflowing Inbox of Frustration.
    La Pochette’s scathing review of Croc-nami had gone viral. Insanely viral. Marc had begun avoiding the internet altogether, as the memes, parodies and