AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“I’m sure it was him,” I say, and in between bites, I explain everything—the bouquet and menacing note at Wimbledon, the flowers beside my hospital bed, and even the Christmas gift and Ben’s insistence that he never misses.
“The photo album is unnerving, I’ll grant you,” says Tibby once I’m finished, her expression troubled. “But gerberas aren’t exactly a rare flower.”
“No, but they’re the exact same shade, and it can’t be a coincidence. He’s trying to get under my skin.”
“Clearly it’s working.” She raises an eyebrow. “And you believe he’s doing this for what reason, precisely?”
“I don’t know,” I say, slumping in my chair. “A warning? A reminder that he’s always watching? At Sandringham, he pretended everything was fine, but it isn’t, Tibby. I’m the reason he was practically exiled last summer, and he wants revenge. But I don’t even know why he did it all in the first place.”
Tibby sighs. “Whatever his reasons were, you must remember that he’s half a world away—”
“He arrived in Paris this morning,” I say, before I can stop myself. Tibby gives me a strange look.
“Very well,” she says slowly. “He’s in Paris. Which means he isn’t here, Evan. He could send an entire field of flowers, and it still wouldn’t matter—they can’t hurt you.”
I shake my head, and my throat tightens as I resist the urge to press my palms to my tearing eyes. “He doesn’t need to be here. He wasn’t in the room when Jasper attacked me, either, and he was miles away when I was shot, but I’m sure he’s behind that, too. Someone tried to kill me, and he just happened to show up the day before? But Alexander refuses to even acknowledge the possibility, and I can’t talk to my mom about it, and Kit is supportive, but he isn’t convinced, and—I just need someone to listen to me.”
She takes a slow, steady breath and tucks her phone away. “I am listening, Evan,” she says. “And I’m worried. Maybe Ben is behind it all, but it isn’t your job to figure it out.”
“Who else is going to do it?” I say. “No one believes me. No one’s even looking for the person who tried to kill me and Kit—”
“On the contrary, your father has half the Home Office working round the clock to find the shooter,” says Tibby.
“But no one’s caught them yet. The shooter’s wandering around free as a bird, and if they come after us again—”
“What happened at Sandringham was a fluke,” says Tibby. “Someone was impossibly lucky, sneaking onto the grounds like they did, and you and Kit were undoubtedly victims of opportunity. Not intended targets. If it had been Maisie out there instead, or Helene…”
This has never once occurred to me over the last seventeen days, and I open and shut my mouth, not sure what to say. “But…but what about the date on the photo album? I know there are other explanations, but—what if Ben was involved? What if it was all planned, and he tries again?”
Tibby says nothing for a long moment, and she eases down into the chair across from mine. “Where is this coming from, Evan? You were joking about the shooter this morning, and you certainly didn’t seem worried then.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know.” I bury my face in my hands and take a shuddering breath. “Maybe it’s the crowds, or—or being out in public again. I didn’t think about that part. I didn’t think about what it would feel like to be around hundreds of strangers when any one of them might want to kill me.”
I feel Tibby’s hand on my knee, but I can’t make myself look at her. “You’ve no idea what kind of effort goes into your security, do you?” she says, but for once, there’s no judgment in her voice. “You’re safe, Evan—as safe as anyone in the world could possibly be. Your father wouldn’t have sent you here otherwise. There are snipers on the roof as we speak, and an entire tactical team no more than fifty feet away, ready to set the world on fire to save you and your sister from every threat imaginable. Each room of this hospital has been searched, and everyone inside has been background-checked within an inch of their lives. Millions of pounds every year are spent protecting your family—”
“From other people,” I say in a choked voice. “From crowds and overzealous fans who think they know us thanks to some twisted parasocial relationship. But who’s supposed to protect us from each other?”
Tibby doesn’t seem to have an answer to this, and she watches me with the intensity of someone trying to read between the lines—to see the three-dimensional shape that’s hidden in the magic picture.
“I’ll speak to Fitz,” she says at last. “I think it’s time for us to cut this visit short.”
“What? No,” I insist, rising to my feet and hastily wiping my cheeks. “Tibby, I’m fine. Really. And I’m obviously not going to mention any of this to the kids.”
“They’re not the ones I’m concerned about,” she says, and I give her a withering look.
“I’m not bailing. And I know you don’t want to be responsible for the rumors that’ll inevitably crop up if I do,” I say. “I just—I haven’t been sleeping well lately, okay? I’m tired, I hate hospitals, the flowers rattled me, and I promise I’ll rest when we get back. But we can’t leave early—these kids deserve better, and Maisie will never forgive me. You know how she is when she’s holding a grudge.”
Tibby eyes me for a long moment. “Fair point,” she allows reluctantly. “The Maisie bit, that is. And I’d rather not give the press another nasty headline, so you get one more chance, Evan. But if I so much as see you slouch, we’re going back to Windsor.”
“Deal,” I say, and even though my eyes are still brimming with unshed tears, I plaster on my sunniest smile. “Let’s go, then, before there aren’t any swords and tiaras left to hand out.”
After Tibby cleans up my smudged makeup, we spend another hour touring the rest of the facility and visiting patients in their rooms. Tibby watches me like a hawk the entire time, but I refuse to let my Evangeline mask slip, not wanting to give her a single reason to follow through with her threat. And at last, once we’ve hugged dozens of children, shaken what feels like hundreds of hands, and smiled for countless photos, Peggy escorts Maisie and me back down to the lobby.
As we say our goodbyes, I refuse to look at the flowers lining the front desk. But I can feel them there, like stares burning a hole in the back of my head, and it’s a relief when our protection officers usher Maisie and me out the door and into the waiting crowd.
That relief doesn’t last long, however. The teeming mass of onlookers is bigger than it was this morning, with so many rows of people packed against the creaking barriers that a wave of claustrophobia threatens to drown me. Even though all I want to do is climb into the Range Rover, Maisie heads straight for the fans eager to catch a glimpse of her, and I follow with an iron fist wrapped around my heart, knowing exactly how it’ll look if I don’t.
With a smile still glued onto my aching face, I shake hands and accept bouquets—none of which are daisies, thankfully, but there are plenty of deep-red roses. The roar of the crowd grows louder as Maisie and I make our way down the barriers, and anxiety spreads through me like a weed, choking what little composure I have left until I can barely speak. I want to leave—I need to leave, but when I glance at my sister, she’s still chatting happily with her well-wishers, seemingly oblivious to the unrest around us.
