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“What about Aoife?” I say. “If she’s telling the truth about being used…”
Singh tilts his head. “Did you believe her story, then?”
I consider it. “Depends. Was she lying about the text I supposedly sent?”
“No,” he says. “She wasn’t lying. Someone was texting her as you under an unrelated number. And that someone asked her to come to the museum opening, exactly as she described.”
My entire body goes cold. “So she really is innocent?”
“It’s possible,” he allows. “Or it could’ve all been set up in such a way to give her the benefit of the doubt, in hopes she might be released. Either way, she’s not a viable asset to us. At best, the leaders of the operation will hold her at arm’s length, if she’s allowed back into the club at all. And if it turns out that she did in fact play a part in the bombing, then we’ll be releasing a terrorist, and you and your family will have one more enemy out there gunning for your lives.”
My fingers are now laced so tightly between Kit’s that by all rights, he should pull away. But he doesn’t. He strokes his thumb against the back of my hand instead, tracing invisible circles into my skin, and slowly I loosen my grip. I don’t let go, though, and neither does he.
“Even if she’s innocent, this will follow her for the rest of her life,” I say.
“Yes,” agrees Singh. “Some marks never rub off completely.”
“And everyone thinks Kit and I…that we’re part of it, too,” I add, and he studies me for a long moment.
“Yes,” he says again, slower this time. “They do.”
I glance up at Kit, and he peers down at me, his warm brown eyes searching mine. We don’t speak—there’s no need, not really, not when we both know what the other is thinking. But there’s a question there, too, that neither of us is ready to ask. Or answer.
“Why don’t I walk you both out?” says Singh. “My colleagues will see to Jenkins once he’s ready.”
This time it’s Kit’s hand that tightens around mine. But he doesn’t shake his head, and at last, with my heart in my throat, I tear my eyes away from his.
“Okay,” I say. And as Kit and I follow Singh through the soulless corridor, the brick-and-concrete fortress weighs heavier over us with each step we take, threatening to bury the last dregs of everything familiar to us both.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Why has Evangeline Bright not been arrested? It’s the question on everyone’s mind, as the palace refuses to make a statement about her alleged ties to the terrorist organization known as the Army of the British Republic, which has claimed responsibility for the Modern Music Museum bombing that killed eight and grievously wounded His Majesty the King.
We certainly have the evidence. The pictures and video of Evangeline hugging friend Aoife Marsh, who was arrested at the scene of the attack and is a reported member of the ABR, have been confirmed as genuine. The leader of ABR himself has publicly thanked Evangeline for her help in the attempted assassination of her father, the King. And if that wasn’t enough, with news breaking this morning of a fire at Windsor that reportedly targeted Princess Mary, palace insiders have revealed that accelerant was found in Evangeline’s bedroom—and that the half sisters had fought the night before.
What more does MI5 need? The members of the royal family have long enjoyed a certain amount of privilege when it comes to bending the laws that the rest of us must follow, but we’re not talking about a traffic ticket or a bit of light fraud. This is murder. This is terrorism. This is treason.
How many more people have to die before MI5 finally admits that the King’s own daughter is responsible? How many more times must our beloved royal family fight for their lives before the senior courtiers stop using the palace’s substantial power to protect a killer?
Evangeline Bright is a traitor—not only to her family, but to this country and its people. And we shudder to think of how many more tragedies we as a nation must face before she is finally brought to justice.
—The Regal Record, 18 January 2024
AS THE RANGE ROVER RACES down the expressway toward London, Jenkins stares at Kit and me, his silence louder than any rebuke.
He’s in the passenger seat, his upper body twisted in what must be an uncomfortable position, but even when we hit a bump, he refuses to budge. The seconds tick by slowly, and though I expect him to speak, he doesn’t have to—the look on his face says everything, and I toy with the cap on my water bottle as I hold his incredulous gaze.
“I know it’s reckless,” I say. “I know there are risks—”
“This is more than a risk, Evan,” he says, his voice so rough that he doesn’t sound like himself. “This is…it’s unthinkable.”
I shrug. “He gave me an opening, Jenkins. I have to take it.”
“No, you don’t,” he says with gentle firmness. “As long as I’ve known you, Evan, your first instinct is to right wrongs with wrongs. You’ll do whatever it takes to fight a perceived injustice, even when it means getting expelled, or setting your classroom on fire, or risking your future—or, it seems, your life.”
“This isn’t a perceived injustice,” I insist. “He’s trying to kill us. Not just me, but Kit, my mom, Alexander—”
“I know, sweetheart,” says Jenkins. “And we have the best people in the world doing everything they can to protect you.”
