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This time, when I stand, I’m careful not to drag the chair along the floor. I head toward the exit on silent feet, but once I reach it, I turn back to Aoife. “Dylan is a good shot, isn’t he?” I say, and she manages a jerking nod.
“Y-yes,” she gasps. “Please, Ev-Evangeline—please, you have to—to believe me—I didn’t—I didn’t—”
“Okay,” I say, knocking on the door. “I believe you.”
Her eyes widen, and she sits up straighter, her tear-streaked face full of astonishment. “You—you do?” she says, and the hope in her voice is a knife to my gut.
“I do,” I say as the door opens. “But it won’t make a difference, Aoife. You know that, right? Because the entire world thinks I’m guilty, too.”
Her jaw goes slack, and she stares at me with dawning horror. But before she can say another word, I turn and walk away, and I don’t—can’t—look back.
Kit and Jenkins are waiting for me in a room down the hall, where three more agents from the Home Office are watching a weeping Aoife on a monitor and speaking quietly among themselves. Jenkins reaches me first, and he places his hands on my shoulders, his gaze searching mine.
“That was a brave thing you did, darling,” he says, and I shake my head.
“Didn’t really have a choice. She only wanted to talk to me,” I say quietly, and as Jenkins lets me go, Kit takes his place, silently gathering me in his arms. But while I bury my face in the crook of his neck, I’m numb. Even though I finally have the answers I’ve been looking for, I still don’t have the one thing I need—the one thing that ties this all together: irrefutable evidence that Ben is responsible for everything.
“What if we can never prove it?” I mumble. We can’t speak freely, not in front of the agents, but Kit knows exactly what I’m talking about.
“We will,” he murmurs as he rubs my back. “He’ll slip up eventually.”
I close my eyes as the soft sound of Aoife’s wails echo through the room. “Maybe,” I say. “But how many more people are we going to lose first?”
Someone clears their throat, and I look up to see Singh standing on the threshold, phone in hand. “Mr. Jenkins. I’m afraid that call is necessary,” he says, and Jenkins stiffens.
“Very well,” he says, and after offering me a small smile that isn’t remotely convincing, he excuses himself to the other side of the room and pulls out his mobile.
“What’s going on?” I say, but Singh gestures toward the hallway.
“If I could have a minute with both of you,” he says, and it’s the kind of request that isn’t really a request at all.
Confused, I take Kit’s hand and follow Singh into the wide corridor. It’s empty, except for a few doors that remain firmly closed, and Singh glances over his shoulder before facing Kit and me head-on.
“Four of the doctors working at the hospital where His Majesty is staying studied at Oxford,” he says in a low voice. “Three from colleges we know Fox Rex recruits from. We’ve pulled them from the floor, but that’s only a temporary solution. As soon as it’s safe to do so, I’ve recommended that His Majesty be moved to a more secure location, along with the rest of the royal family.”
I frown. “But the hospital’s crawling with security.”
“I’m aware. Until we track down a full list of Fox Rex members, both past and present, however, we must assume that anyone who fits the profile could be working for the ABR,” says Singh, and I stare at him, horrified.
“Wait—so anyone who went to Oxford—”
“Is to be treated as a danger to your family,” he says. “Yes.”
“But—that has to be thousands of people,” I say. “Tens of thousands.”
“Hundreds of thousands,” he corrects. “Including several royal courtiers and senior advisers—such as Harry Jenkins.”
I glance back through the open doorway and catch a glimpse of Jenkins pacing the length of the office, his spine ramrod straight as he speaks into his phone. “He’s not a suspect,” I say firmly. “He’s family.”
“So is Prince Benedict,” says Singh, and I scowl.
“Don’t you dare compare him to Jenkins—”
“It’s not a comparison, Miss Bright,” he says. “It’s an example of how close the ABR could be. And as it stands, we have no way of knowing who might be an alumnus—or potentially still working for them.”
“What if there is no list?” says Kit, taking my hand in what feels like a silent effort to calm me down.
“I guarantee you a record exists, if only to feed their leader’s ego. We’re already working on it, but it’ll take time to get someone on the inside.”
