Chapter Twenty-Two
John Phillip Michaels, leader of the Abr and the alleged architect behind the bombing of the Modern Music Museum that killed eight and critically injured His Majesty, has died by apparent suicide in his cell whilst awaiting trial on charges of treason, terrorism, and murder in the first degree.
John Phillip Michaels—Guy Fawkes—is dead.
I should feel relieved, and part of me is. The man in the teal scarf, who stalked me for weeks and actively tried to kill not only me, but also my father and Kit, is gone. I never have to worry about turning around and coming face to face with those chilling gold-rimmed eyes again.
But none of it makes sense, and as I stare at Singh’s text messages, the room starts to spin.
Singh
Need to talk ASAP.
Singh
Damn, premiere’s tonight. Calling now.
Singh
Good time for you to choose to pick up, Bright.
Singh
Bloody hell, you’re live on TV. Trying again in a minute.
Singh
Evangeline. This is important. Partying can wait.
Singh
Michaels is dead. Apparent suicide. Bloody guards let him keep his belt. Can’t say much more. Looking through footage now. Will update in a minute.
Singh
Footage missing. Might be nothing, but I’ve alerted your security. Calling Tibby now.
“Singh says there’s footage from the prison missing,” I say, my mouth painfully dry. This can’t be happening. “Why would there be footage missing?”
“He could’ve bribed the guards so there was no recording of his death,” says Kit. He’s pale, even in the dim light, and his grip on my knee tightens.
“Or someone else could’ve bribed them so they don’t know what really happened,” says Tibby, and it’s the first time I’ve heard her sound genuinely frightened.
“It’s unlikely, but not impossible, especially with someone as high-profile as Michaels.
And it seems like that’s what Singh is thinking, too. ”
“You mean…” My pulse races. “Someone could’ve done this to him?”
“Or paid a guard to do it for them,” says Tibby, glancing at me. “We don’t happen to know anyone who likes to have other people do their dirty work, do we?”
My jaw tightens. “Is there any chance John really did…?” I can’t finish that sentence, not in front of Kit.
But I don’t have to, because I’m already answering my own question.
“No. He wanted to go to trial and make sure everyone knew what he’d done and why he’d done it.
There’s no way he would’ve deprived the entire world from hearing his—his manifesto on why the monarchy deserves to be destroyed. ”
“Someone could have threatened him,” says Kit quietly. “Or his family.”
“He doesn’t have any siblings, and I’m willing to bet he loathes Baron Michaels,” says Tibby, looking around the otherwise empty lobby. “Well, they’re not pulling people out of the theater, so that has to be a good sign. They don’t think whatever’s happened is a security risk.”
“Do you think anyone in there knows?” I say. “Should we at least tell my mom and—”
My phone vibrates in my hand, and I fumble it in surprise, nearly sending it straight to the ground. I catch it before it can skydive off the table, only to see a video call request on the screen.
Rosie.
“Evan?” Her image is blurry when I accept the call, but it quickly clears, revealing her puffy, tearstained face. “Did you hear?”
“I heard,” I say grimly. “Are you okay? Did something else happen today?”
She shakes her head, her lips pressed together so tightly that the skin around her mouth is blanched. “Do—do they think it was Ben?” she whispers, and I can barely hear her despite the quiet of the bar.
“I…” I look between Tibby and Kit, but neither of them has any answers. “I don’t know. It’s impossible to say this early on. It could’ve just been…you know. His choice.”
Rosie inhales a sharp gulp of air, and a sob escapes her. I mentally kick myself for not checking in with her earlier. After her phone call this morning, I should have at least followed up after lunch.
“Are you okay, Rosie? Did anything else happen?” I repeat.
“N-no,” she sobs. “But—but I’m scared, Evan. What if—what if it was Ben? What if I’m next?”
My heart sinks. “He won’t come after you, Rosie.
Not for writing a few posts.” But even as I say it, I know that’s not all she did.
She helped with the fire, too, which almost killed Maisie and should’ve killed my mom.
She fed him information that helped him with who knows how many of his schemes—maybe ones we don’t even know about—and he has every reason in the world to come after her.
She can testify against him, and with all she knows and all she’s done for him, she can easily be the linchpin to expose him and put him away for treason.
Shit.
“The man in the park stalking me,” she says shakily. “What if it was Ben? Or—or Dylan? It could’ve been, couldn’t it?”
“Maybe,” I say, trying to sound unconvinced. “Did security stop by?”
Rosie nods. “There’s someone outside my door right now, but—I’m too afraid to leave. And what if Ben gets to me anyway? If he got to John Phillip Michaels in a prison cell, then killing me won’t be any—any trouble at all—”
That’s all she manages before breaking down into even more tears, and I grimace, glancing up at Kit and Tibby. “Hey, Rosie?” I say. “I’m going to come see you, okay? Right now. Just to make sure you’re okay.”
“But—but the premiere,” she sobs.
“I’m not watching the movie anyway,” I say. “I’ll be right there, okay? Let your guard know.”
She nods shakily, and while she’s wiping the snot from her face, I hang up. “You don’t have to come,” I say to Kit. He hasn’t spoken to her since we used Rosie’s crush on him to trick her into confessing, and it’s been an awkward night as it is.
“You know I am,” he says. “We’ll take extra security with us, just in case. Rosie’s not wrong, you know.”
“I know,” I say miserably. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Tibby scoffs. “Are you mad? I don’t care how distraught she is. This can wait until morning. You must be there after the credits, and there’s barely an hour and a half left—”
“Then I guess we have an hour and twenty-nine minutes to make it back,” I say. “Rosie doesn’t live far, right?”
“No more than fifteen minutes away,” says Kit, and he stands, offering me his hand. “Tibby?”
She grinds her teeth, her nails digging into her designer bag. “Fine,” she says crisply. “But if you’re not there when the lights go on, then I will make bloody sure everyone involved knows exactly whose idea this was.”
“Naturally,” I say, and I take Kit’s hand and hop off the stool, unable to fully shake the echo of Rosie’s cries. “Let’s hope this place has a back exit.”
We arrive in front of Rosie’s townhouse less than twenty minutes later, and sure enough, there’s a mustached officer standing guard outside her gate.
He greets the three of us with a nod, and as Tibby tries to wrangle my train and make sure I don’t catch it on anything, Kit and I hurry up the walkway arm in arm.
My hand trembles as I knock on her door, and I’m not sure what I’m more afraid of—that Ben really may be responsible for John Phillip Michaels’s death and coming after Rosie, too, or what her reaction might be upon seeing me and Kit again.
Either way, I don’t have much time to think about it when the door flies open, and a tearstained Rosie stands on the other side, her mouth hanging open in shock.
“K-Kit?” she manages. “I didn’t know you were coming, too.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “We both wanted to make sure you were all right. Is that okay?”
Rosie takes a moment to consider it, but at last she nods, a tiny gesture that isn’t at all convincing. Still, she steps aside to give us room to enter the foyer, and as we do so, an adorable white dog much smaller than Poppy trots into the room.
“Oh, hi,” I say, bending down as much as I can in this scarlet atrocity of a dress. “You must be Snickers.”
His little tail wags as I scratch him behind the ears, and Rosie walks listlessly into the white marble kitchen. It’s sizable for London, and it’s more of an aesthetic than a functional space, which isn’t surprising when it comes to Rosie and her obsession with social media.
“He doesn’t usually like strangers,” she says, perching on a white leather barstool beside a massive bouquet of pink and red roses. She reaches into an unwrapped magenta gift box on the counter, pulling out a chocolate. “But I suppose you’re not really a stranger. I’ve told him all about you.”
“You have?” I say, and as I join her, Snickers disappears into another room, his tail still wagging. “He’s really sweet. How old is he?”
“Seventeen months.” She nibbles on the chocolate, staring at the intricate design. “The guard outside said you hired his firm, Kit?”
Kit nods, and he heads toward the electric kettle to boil some water, presumably for tea.
“We were hoping for palace security to step in, but with the event tonight, there was no one to spare,” he says, and I can sense the guilt rolling off him.
“We didn’t want to leave you vulnerable, even for a day. ”
She sniffs and looks him in the eye at last. “Thank you. It means a lot to me and Snickers. And thank you for coming by. You really didn’t have to.”
“I think we did.” I study Rosie. She’s in sweats—the worn kind most people never leave the house in, not the designer type, and her curly blond hair is lank and a little greasy at the roots.
She looks terrible, and suddenly I’m glad we’re here.
Not that we can really do much other than sit with her, but at least it’s something.
“The flowers are really pretty, too,” says Rosie, and one of her dimples appears as she offers me a tiny smile. “Maybe a little overboard, but I really appreciate them. They’re beautiful.”
“Flowers?” I say, confused, but she’s already rearranging the giant vase of roses. “Oh—those?”