Chapter 19
Their father was dead, and Romeo’s tea had gone cold.
Henry had given Romeo the mug of steaming red chai after his police interview, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to go near it, so the tea now sat abandoned on the side table next to him.
As midday approached, the Manor had filled up with the smiling faces of familiar strangers.
There had to be at least eighty or so odd people here, and that was only including the guests from last night.
The staff that had been working on the yacht, such as the waiters, the captain, and the crew, were also here, but were being kept in a separate room down the barricaded hall, so as not to rouse suspicion about what was really going on.
Everyone else had been crammed into the drawing room like sardines in a commodious tin, and Romeo was now at the edge of the chaos, as he often was, seated on one of the floral-patterned couches, knitting a scarf.
They were essentially landlocked in the space between the foyer and the drawing room—with the entrances to the hallways and west wing staircase blocked off by random pieces of furniture—and there was security posted all over.
Despite this, the air in the drawing room was filled with loud, excited whispers that formed a low hum throughout.
From his spot, Romeo could hear everything, from chatter about what someone had had for breakfast that morning to general anticipation for the Button Banquet Brunch.
The brunch that had now been canceled and replaced with interviews with the head of the police.
But the guests didn’t know that yet. They were all too caught up in their blissful ignorance.
Romeo’s interview with the police chief had been short and straightforward, but that hadn’t made him feel any less anxious while it was happening.
It all felt like he was taking some kind of test—an important one.
And, as Romeo had never been good at tests, he was almost certain that he’d failed it.
After the interview, he was instructed to stay in the drawing room, to not leave or go wandering about.
His siblings, as well as the guests, were also told to stay put, but he couldn’t see any of his brothers or sisters in the room now. Had they somehow escaped?
His siblings couldn’t have gotten too far.
But it wasn’t like he could text them to ask; their phones had all been confiscated, and so Romeo only had his stale cup of bloodred tea, the scarf he was knitting, the dread-filled knocking in his chest, and his thoughts about his dead father to keep him company.
This was definitely not how he expected to be spending the morning after the ball.
The knitting was doing a terrible job of distracting him from the fact that his home was filled with people, all invited here by his father and now all trapped here because of what had happened to his father.
Romeo looked up, his heart in his throat as he surveyed the room, eyeing the crowd of unassuming guests, all oblivious to the tragedy of today.
It was as if he were in one of those weird dreams he sometimes had where everything in the world felt backward, and then he’d wake up to find that things were all right and normal.
But he had a feeling this wasn’t one of those times.
There was no waking up from this nightmare.
He spotted Henry weaving through the crowd anxiously, helping some of the maids serve coffee, tea, and Mrs. Gray’s freshly baked cookies. The scene reminded Romeo of some kind of twisted version of the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party. Which was fitting, as this was indeed a madhouse.
Close by, he spotted Evie, dressed in a deep-red cardigan, a dark denim skirt, and leather boots, looking triumphant as she managed to grab a cookie from the quickly emptying tray. She waved at him, then walked over to where he was sitting in the corner.
“We can’t keep meeting like this,” she said.
“I know. It almost feels like you’re stalking me,” Romeo replied, forcing his voice to sound cheerful and not reflect how uneasy he felt inside.
Evie laughed, and it was truly the most joyous sound he’d heard in a while. “Maybe I am, Rome. Maybe I’m snooping on you,” she said, taking a seat next to him on the sofa.
“Ever the detective,” he replied with a small smile.
Evie glanced down at his hands, all tangled in yarn.
“Why are you knitting a sock?” she asked.
“It’s not a sock, it’s a scarf,” he said.
She frowned, tilting her head. “No offense, but it looks a bit too small and a bit too sock-shaped to be a scarf.”
“First of all, this is not sock-shaped. It is a perfectly respectable rectangle. Two, just because my scarf does not conform to societal standards of scarves, does not make it any less of a suitable scarf,” he said.
“I see your point … but logistically, who would this tiny ‘scarf’—if we’re calling it that—be for? Barbie?”
“No, it’s for Pulitzer.”
Evie raised an eyebrow. “Who on earth is Pulitzer?”
“My pet pig. Or rather the family’s pet pig … but I’m the one that feeds her most days.”
Evie sat up, amusement circling her features as she analyzed his face for any sign of humor. “Wait, you guys actually have a pet pig?” she asked.
Romeo nodded. “Yes. A Royal Dandie—”
“And her name is Pulitzer?” Evie asked, her face still housing shock.
“Well, her full government name is actually the Notorious P.I.G.—but we call her Pulitzer for short. She’s turning one on Tuesday, so I thought I’d knit her a birthday present,” he said, holding the scarf up.
Evie’s mouth formed an O and then she was staring at the “scarf” with a look of bewilderment. “I see … I have another question: Do you like your pig, Romeo?”
Romeo narrowed his eyes at her. “I’ll have you know that Litzy is a very happy pig.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Of course I like her!” he said.
“I believe you. But I still feel bad for that poor pig,” Evie said, smiling. She then looked up at the grandfather clock. “I wonder what’s taking so long? I thought the brunch was meant to start at eleven and it’s almost twelve. I skipped breakfast for this.”
“I’m not sure,” Romeo said, ignoring the itch in his nose. He wasn’t completely lying; he had no idea where the officers were now or what they were planning next. And the fact that he did not know was not helping the dread he felt building inside.
“And why have they blocked off some of the halls and the staircase? Is there some surprise awaiting us in the banqueting hall or something?” Evie asked, peering around with suspicion.
Romeo didn’t say anything. What would he even say? Yes, there is a surprise, just not the kind anyone would want or expect.
“I’m going to see if my mom’s in the kitchen. Do you want anything?” Evie pushed herself up from the chair.
For the first time, Romeo couldn’t imagine he’d feel any sort of appetite for a while. He shook his head. “I had a big breakfast,” he lied. He’d barely touched it.
“Well, I wish you the best of luck with that scarf. Hopefully the brunch starts before I get back,” Evie said.
“Hopefully,” Romeo replied, despite knowing there was no hope here at all. “How’re you going to get to the kitchen? I’m pretty sure that section of the house is blocked off.”
“You underestimate me greatly, Romeo Button,” Evie said, and then held up a staff pass she had hidden in her pockets.
“Perks of being the child of ‘the help,’ ” she said, grinning as she gave him a subtle wave and then gracefully traipsed away.
Her dancer’s feet helped her slip out of the drawing room undetected, right past a Manor security guard who was stationed in an inconspicuous corner and thankfully had his back turned to her.
The hum of voices in the room fell away, as did his upbeat facade. Romeo’s eyes crisscrossed and blurred, his vision replaced by words. His thoughts grew louder and harsher, replaying the same words over and over, like a faulty Vegas slot machine.
Dad is dead … Dad is dead … Dad is dead … Dad is dead …
Romeo hadn’t noticed he’d been pressing his knitting needles together so harshly until he felt the pinprick stinging of his fingers.
He broke out of his grief-laden trance to find fresh red blood, the same color as his tea, trickling from his fingertips and pooling around his palms.