Chapter 29
CHAPTER 29
ROYALE MESS
Omar
It’s pissing down rain and colder than it should be when I leave Reece’s. I have an umbrella, but I don’t open it on my way to the Tube. This rain is a reminder that constant sunshine creates deserts. And that rain doesn’t just erode and melt and sweep things away. It also nourishes and revives. The love that’s taken root in my heart has soaked up the rain that started falling last night, and even though I spent it away from her, it’s stronger today.
On the train ride home, I try calling Jules every time I get a signal but only get her voicemail.
By the time I get home, I’m soaked and frustrated. The house is dark and quiet when I burst through the front door. “Jules?” The only thing I hear in response is the echo of my voice as it travels through the empty house.
The kitten winds her body through my legs, her little tail curling around my ankle. I scratch her ears, and she purrs and arches her delicate back in pleasure. “Oh, I’m the biggest shit. I forgot all about you when I stormed off and left.”
I check my watch. Maybe Jules had to go into work. Or whatever errand she had to run took longer than she expected.
I walk through the house and don’t see a single thing that belongs to her. Not even the bottle of lotion she keeps by the sink in the kitchen. I panic all the way up the stairs and sigh a relieved sigh when the faint smell of my soap lingers in the air and I see her side of the bed is unmade. She slept here and left this morning, then. When I get back downstairs, I find the file she gave me last night sitting exactly where I’d left it.
It’s not lost on me that someone did to her what I did to my mother. I know my father believes she paid her due, but he wasn’t there. She may have been the reason I was behind the wheel, but that doesn’t change the fact that I hit the cyclist. No one should live with the burden of sins they didn’t commit. I couldn’t do right by my mom, but I’ll do right by Jules.
I send her a text and then get to work on the other thing weighing heavily on my mind. Her case. I take pictures of all the pertinent files and email them to the only lawyer I know well enough to trust: Remington Wilde.
Then I close my eyes, just to rest them until Jules comes home.
My phone’s ring wakes me up with a start. I lunge for it, hoping it’s Jules. But I’m not disappointed when Remi W flashes on my screen.
“Remi, what do you think?” I ask in lieu of hello.
“The evidence against her is circumstantial, but compelling. I see why she was convicted. She had a good lawyer, but he had no real vested interest in the outcome—he got paid whether she won or lost.”
“Please let there be a ‘but’ in there somewhere,” I groan.
“ But it’s too neat of a package. The evidence is everything they would need to get a conviction. And there’s no such thing as a slam dunk when there’s no direct evidence of her having set that fire. There’s something amiss. I don’t see a request for the production of all the Crown’s evidence. Maybe it’s just not here, but your best bet is to get your hands on the Crown’s file.”
“What am I looking for if I can get it?”
“I would want to know why she couldn’t wake him up. Was a toxicology done? I’d want to know more about the people who gave the statements that attested to the argument where she threatened him. They’re not going to give it to you or anyone you send on your behalf. Especially if they repressed or manufactured evidence.”
“So what can I do?”
“I can’t tell you that, friend. I’m still an officer of the court. But what I know is that you’ll need someone who knows their way around networks and servers. And who’s got a good, a really good nose. Luckily for you, I know just the person.”
“Oh thank fuck.”
“Yeah, well, no promises, but if there’s more, she’ll find it. I’m texting you her number. Call her and tell her I sent you.”
“Thank you, I owe you.”
“Yeah, you do. When are you coming back to Houston so you can pay all your debts?”
“As soon as I pay the most outstanding one.” I check the time. It’s been three hours since I texted Jules. I call her again—voicemail again.
I call her office. There’s no answer.
I call The Effra. Dominic tells me she hasn’t been by.
Remi’s text comes, and I decide to focus on what I can actually control. Jules will be back, and I want to have more than apologies and forgiveness to offer when she gets here.
Whoever said a burden shared is a burden halved has never met Dina Lu, the investigator that Remi connected me with. She took my burden and obliterated it in a matter of hours. It’s just past noon when her email comes through. I skim over her introduction and recitation of the task Remi gave her to get to the crux of the message.
“ This file is full of red flags. First and most glaring is that there was no tox screen done. The witnesses who gave statements stating they heard her arguing with her father both had criminal records that were sealed after her trial. I found them, and they’re attached. The most interesting thing I found is the repeated mention of the name Royale and a reference to emails and transactions. I started with the emails because they’re much easier to hack. And in her father’s email, less than a week before he died, is an email to an N. Royale in which he threatens to expose a lie if they didn’t meet his demand for an increase. I didn’t know what the increase referred to. But his bank records just came through. That’s why this took me so long—they had been archived after all this time. But it was very worth the wait. I found a regular monthly deposit into his account of ten thousand pounds for the ten years of records I was able to get. The money came from an offshore account registered to a shell company that appears to have been created solely to launder this money. The shell company is defunct now, but it was registered to an LLC that’s registered to a subsidiary of Royal Fragrance, D/B/A Monarch International. None of this was presented as evidence or given to her defense team. Or if it was given to her defense team, they didn’t do anything with it. Maybe it’s my general mistrust of criminal prosecutors, but if I was to hazard a guess, I’d start with the former.”
My heart slams against my chest at that last sentence. Monarch is the company that Noah Royale is the head of. I do a quick calculation and relax a little because in 2008, he would have been in high school. A quick search tells me he went to high school in Houston, nowhere near the UK. It only takes a quick search on their company website to see the smoking gun. The only other N. Royale is his mother, Nora. I can’t fathom the connection, but there has to be one.
I read the rest of her email. “I’ve spoken with a friend who has some contacts at the Met. Best thing would be for you to have a conversation with her, record it, and hope she sings like a bird. Let me know where this trail with the Royales leads. I’ll send more information as I find it. But I hope this gives you a good start. I hate that she was screwed by a system that should have protected her. Second chances are rare and priceless—but she’s more than earned hers.”
I spare a few minutes to write back with my thanks and to ask for an invoice. But I’m coming out of my skin with impatience. Nearly six hours have gone by since I got home, and Jules isn’t back and hasn’t returned my message.
I call her again. It goes straight to voicemail. So I send an email to her at work, forwarding everything Dina sent.
I’m putting my phone away when it buzzes again with a reply email. I smile at how quickly she responded, but it fades when I open the email and see why. It reads,
“The email address you’re sending to doesn’t exist. If you believe you’ve received this email in error, please contact us as [email protected] .”
I check the email address I used, reading each letter to make sure I didn’t leave one out. But I didn’t. My nerves prickle with a sense of foreboding. Where the hell is she?