Chapter Twenty-Four
Who was powerful enough to have him killed?
Who had the means, the motive, and the opportunity to do so?
Only one family checks all those boxes, and it certainly wouldn’t be the first time they’ve gone to great lengths to cover up a royal secret—such as just how long the former Queen Helene and the Duke of York have been involved.
In the three days between the night of the premiere and the afternoon of Rosie’s funeral, not a single media outlet mentions her death.
It should be everywhere—one of Princess Mary’s best friends dying from poisoned chocolates while Kit and I watched, helpless to do a damn thing.
I brace myself for the media onslaught the next day, and then the day after that, but it’s like it never even happened. In the papers and online, at least.
Maisie doesn’t leave her apartment for those entire three days.
Kit and I don’t venture out from ours much, either, but we at least pretend to be human in the face of our—mostly Kit’s—grief.
I’m still reeling from watching Rosie die and all the guilt that comes with knowing she thought those damn chocolates were from me, but he’s the one who really knew her.
They’d been friends for years, and it wasn’t exactly a secret that she wanted to be more.
She was infatuated with him, and the crushing regret of having used that against her back in January must cause him no end of shame.
Singh stops by twice—once the day after to clarify a few points in our statements, and once the morning of the funeral. As he settles into a seat at our dining table, Kit pulls me into our bedroom, everything about him riddled with anxiety.
“Ev,” he says quietly, as broken as I’ve ever seen him. “I know we’re part of this investigation, and there’s nothing we can do to excuse ourselves from it. But…” His brow knits, and I reach up to smooth it over, as if it’s that easy.
“But it’s a lot,” I whisper, and his Adam’s apple bobs.
“I can feel the seams in me coming undone, and all I can think about is—is what would’ve happened if Rosie had offered you the chocolates, too.
Or if it had been something sprayed on the flowers, or…
or…” He shakes his head, and I can see a slight tremor as he moves.
“I don’t want to fall apart again, Ev, and it’s taking everything I have to hold myself together. ”
I clasp his hands between mine, alarmed by how cold his are. “Oxford won’t happen again,” I say, keeping my voice low. “I promise. Have you spoken to your therapist since…?”
“No,” he admits. “I should. I keep meaning to.”
“Then how about this,” I say. “You stay here and call your therapist. Make an appointment for this morning or later today, after the funeral. And once that’s done, take a long, hot shower or—or bath, or whatever you think will relax you, okay? I’ll see what Singh wants.”
I raise his hands to my cheek, letting my warmth chase away the chill in his skin. Kit takes a few deep breaths, then nods. “Okay. You’ll tell me what he says?”
“Every word,” I promise. “Thank you for trusting me.”
“Always.” He slips his hands from mine only to hug me, holding me for a few beats longer than usual.
I can feel his heart racing against my chest, the thud-thud-thud a reminder that this hasn’t fixed everything—maybe it hasn’t fixed anything at all—but at least we’re trying together this time. That’s the step we’ve been missing.
Once Kit has excused himself to make the call, I head back out into our shared sitting room to face Singh, two fresh breakfast trays, and the mountain of questions between us.
“We have no evidence that Prince Benedict or Dylan Baxter were involved,” says Singh, heading me off before I can speak. “Scotland Yard tracked down the delivery boy who dropped off the flowers and chocolates, and he’s clean.”
“He is?” I say, confused. “You’re sure it was the chocolates? Could it have been something else?”
Singh pours himself a cup of tea and dunks a cookie—biscuit—in the hot liquid. “It’ll be a while before toxicology can confirm, but they’re as sure as they can be that it was the chocolates. Good call on that,” he adds, as if that’s something I should be proud of. All I feel is slightly sick.
“Do you know where the packages came from?” I press. “Are there any more leads? There have to be, right? They didn’t just—appear.”
“We’re working on it,” he promises. “It’s early days yet. Very early days. These things take time.”
The urge to scream rises up within me, primal and so overwhelming that I almost can’t tamp it down. “It was Ben. It had to be Ben. There’s no one else who would come after Rosie—”
“She had some online stalkers we’re looking into,” he says. “A few exes that weren’t the kindest. We’re considering every avenue, Evan, and that includes ones that don’t fit your narrative.”
“I don’t care if they fit my narrative or not. I just want whoever did this to be found.”
Singh watches me. “Well, the card points to you. That certainly says something.”
I freeze, my hand halfway to my own cup of tea. “Am I a suspect again?” I say, my heart pounding. “Because Kit and Tibby were there, and—”
“No, no, nothing like that,” says Singh with surprising reassurance. “I simply mean that whoever it was certainly wanted to pin it on you, didn’t they?”
I exhale, relieved, even though proving my innocence no longer feels like the priority. Maybe because I’ve had to do it again and again, and I’m sick of it. “Which would point right back to Ben,” I say.
“Yes. Or someone else who has a grudge against you,” he adds. “Like Michaels.”
“Who’s dead,” I say flatly, pushing aside my own regret for not visiting him the day of the premiere. Nothing could have convinced Tibby to make room in our packed schedule for a trip to a penitentiary, and there’s no faulting myself for that one. It was inevitable. “Any leads there?”
Singh raises an eyebrow. “You’re full of questions today, aren’t you?”
“Isn’t that why you’re here?” I say, picking up a piece of toast and nibbling on the corner. “Otherwise this could’ve easily been a text. You want to brainstorm with someone who’s even more paranoid than you are.”
“ ‘Paranoid’ isn’t the word I’d use,” he says, digging into a bowl of fresh fruit. “At least not to describe myself. Any thoughts?”
I think for a moment as I slowly chew, my unharnessed thoughts flitting from one dead end to the next. I know it’s Ben. I know it as well as I know my own damn name. But without proof—without a sufficient trail of evidence—my certainty is worthless.
“I don’t have all the pieces,” I say at last. “I don’t think any of us do. But people like Maisie and Kit…they know Ben better than I ever will. And if we want to start somewhere, we need to start by talking to them. That’s the only way we’re going to outsmart him.”
“By surrounding him like a pack of wolves and picking him apart until he has no choice but to give up?” says Singh, and I nod, hating myself for even thinking of dragging Kit into this.
“More or less. How did Michaels die without anyone seeing him hang himself?”
“Apparently the CCTV system in the prison was having technical difficulties.”
Now it’s my turn to raise my eyebrow. “Right. And you’re checking into the people who could’ve made that happen?”
“Naturally. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about Michaels that could be useful, would you? He was asking for you.”
I hesitate, then shake my head. “I told you everything,” I say, and it’s the truth.
Or at least I think it is, but as soon as I’ve said it, the so-called chat with him in his study replays in my mind, beat by beat if not word for word.
And then, in a flash of memory, I glance at the Victorian writing desk nearby, which neither Kit nor I actually use, considering we’re more adept at email than we are handwritten letters.
There, sitting innocuously between a gold container of several fancy fountain pens and a picture of Kit and me taken over the summer, sits the puzzle box Guy Fawkes gave me.
I still haven’t cracked it. Maybe I should have tried harder, but after he was arrested, it didn’t seem to matter anymore.
Still, I know that if I mention it now, Singh will take it and I’ll never see it again, and something in me bristles at that—at the idea that I’m not good enough to solve it on my own.
Which is ridiculous, because this is literally a case of life and death, but it really can’t matter, can it?
Now that the case is solved and Michaels is dead.
It’s just a toy he gave me to drive me bonkers, and to distract me from the real game at hand.
But that game is over now, and all I have left is an unsolved puzzle.
I open my mouth to mention it, but before I say a word, something stops me.
My pride, or maybe whatever strange bond was forged between me and John Phillip Michaels in that study.
This is personal, between him and me, and I can’t stand the thought of anyone else trying to open it.
“I’ll tell you what,” says Singh, breaking the heavy silence between us. “I’ll gather together what I can and meet you back here after the funeral. Bring the people you trust.”
“Not many of those,” I say without thinking, and Singh offers me a grimace of a smile.
“That’s how you know you’re doing your job right,” he says. “I’m sorry about your friend, Evangeline. I’ll see you afterward.”
He stays only long enough to finish his fruit and tea, and I see him to the door. As soon as I close it behind him, I wipe the sad smile from my face—my default these past few days—and turn toward the desk.
In three quick strides, I take the puzzle box and turn it over in my hand, and once again I start to twist its pieces, trying to find a solution that seems like it can’t possibly exist.
—