Chapter Twenty-Eight #3
“We can consider it an option,” says Doyle gruffly after it becomes clear I’m not going to answer.
Kit’s hand tightens around my knee, and I can feel him staring, waiting for me to look at him, to communicate what I’m feeling to some degree.
But I can’t, not without giving it all away. So I don’t. Not yet.
Astrid toys with the ends of her glossy hair. “As for other options, we’ll of course argue that the original test was forged—”
“Naturally,” agrees Doyle, scribbling something down.
“—but it’s entirely possible that there’s a record somewhere, and someone will talk,” she finishes. “So that may backfire on us, too.”
“So what can we do?” says Helene, her voice a bit higher now. “There must be something, even if it isn’t a perfect fix.”
“Telling the truth is out,” says Astrid plainly. “Not if you want the line of succession to remain the same. It would also risk putting an end to the monarchy itself, with how it would shatter the trust between the palace and the public.”
“Simply not an option,” says Alexander firmly, while Helene shakes her head.
“Agreed,” says Astrid. “Which would leave Maisie’s idea of a DNA test using Evangeline’s blood—”
“Not happening,” says Kit, and the whole room once again turns to look at us.
Even I glance up at him, surprised by the protectiveness in his voice.
But his mouth is set, his brow is furrowed, and the hand on my knee is now tracing invisible patterns over my leggings, as if to assure me that he’s on my side, regardless of what it costs us both.
I could kiss him right here, in front of the entire family. But I don’t, only because I know it would embarrass him. Instead, I manage a tiny smile meant only for him, and in that exact instant, I feel something click in my hand.
The puzzle box.
It’s open.
“Very well,” says Astrid in a clipped tone, clearly not happy with Kit laying down the law. “Then that leaves us with one viable option: discrediting Prince Benedict.”
“And how would we do that?” says Nicholas, sounding flustered. “He may be a lot of things, but he’s still my son—”
“From what I’ve heard, he’s done plenty of things to this family that would show malice on his part,” says Astrid.
“Things that wouldn’t even require a felony conviction, should it come to that.
The incident with Evangeline and the video, for instance, or the revenge photographs he released of the poor Chesterfield-Bishop girl.
Yes, the public would certainly see it as retribution from the palace, but it would also tear his reputation to shreds. ”
“But would that move the needle when it comes to what the public believes regarding the princess?” says Doyle, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief.
Astrid shrugs. “It sure as hell won’t hurt. Pardon my French.”
Alexander considers it. “It would also become glaringly obvious that we have lied to protect the children multiple times, and the monarchy cannot be caught in a lie.”
“It doesn’t come without its costs,” agrees Astrid. “But by discrediting Ben…”
Their voices fade into the background as I stare at the tiny black chip that rests inside the hollow of the puzzle box, and even though I’ve seen dozens of them before, it still takes me nearly thirty seconds to fully believe what I’m looking at.
It’s a SIM card.
John Phillip Michaels—Guy Fawkes—gave me a puzzle with a SIM card inside.
It could be a trap—some kind of virus to steal information from my mobile, but something screams in the back of my mind that that isn’t right.
There’s a reason he wanted to talk to me the day he died, and this, I’m positive, was it.
He wanted to make sure I still had the puzzle.
He wanted to make sure I was still working on it, because this SIM card was meant for me. Not as a trap. But as a key.
My hands tremble as I pull my mobile from the pocket of my hoodie, and it takes me longer than it should to open the SIM compartment and exchange mine for the one in the box.
My pulse is hammering, and I can feel Kit’s eyes on me yet again as I restart my phone.
While I wait for it to reboot, I take all of three breaths, and as soon as the main screen pops up—no password, no lock, nothing to keep me out—I start to explore.
Phone logs. Text messages. Images. Even voice recordings. My mind spins, and I finally look up at the rest of the table, vaguely shocked that they’re still locked in the same conversation, as if the entire world hasn’t just turned inside out and upside down.
“We need Venetia,” says Nicholas. “If we try any of this without her support, she’ll do everything she can to make our lives miserable. Believe me, I’ve been there. It isn’t an enjoyable experience.”
“Venetia won’t budge,” points out Alexander.
“And even if she did,” says my mother, who’s been quiet up until now, “what real difference would it make? She can’t control Ben. No one can.”
“We don’t need to control him,” says Helene through clenched teeth. “We need a way to remove him from the bloody—”
“I have an idea,” I say shakily, and my voice comes out as a squeak. No one stops talking—over me, over each other, layer after layer as they fight about the best bad route to take.
And so I stand, clutching my phone like it’s the key to eternal life, and I bang my free fist on the table so hard that my hand starts to throb. Instantly everyone turns my way again, and this time, that’s exactly what I want.
“I have an idea.”