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“I was wrong. It wasn’t Kit,” I say. “Even though he let me believe it was, even though I almost lost him, it wasn’t him. And I’m not going to put Kit through that again. Not unless we have irrefutable proof.”
“And I’m not going to blame the only two friends I have because you can’t see what’s right in front of you,” she snaps. “He was there for all of it.”
“Yes, he was,” I say. “And maybe that’s the point. Maybe the real mole is trying to frame him, too, just like Ben tried to frame me last summer.”
Maisie lets out a derisive snort and shakes her head. “You think this is still about Ben? The bombing, the attacks—” She shakes her head incredulously. “You’re absolutely mad.”
After the conversation I had with my mother that morning, her words are a slap to the face. But I swallow the sting and press on, refusing to rise to her bait.
“Ben knew about the photo with Aoife before it was posted,” I say with all the steadiness I can muster. “During that first meeting after the bombing—he said that he wouldn’t be surprised if the public wasn’t thrilled about me being part of the council.”
“Yes, but that could’ve meant anything—”
“He offered Kit his condolences for his failure,” I say, and this time it’s my voice that rises. “Maisie, he meant the bombing. He knew Kit was in the picture, too—he knew Kit was part of that group. He knew it all. He even said—”
I stop suddenly, and Maisie pulls her leg from the pillow so she can face me properly.
“What, Evan?” she says, fury radiating from her. “What awful thing did Ben supposedly say that made you think he knew about the bombers?”
“He said…” I stare at her, positive she won’t believe me. She didn’t hear it, after all—no one else did. But I’m sure it was real. “He said it was supposed to be me. The people who died in the bombing—the ABR was after me, Maisie. Ben said—”
She laughs, a cold sound that seems to drop the temperature in the room a good twenty degrees. “You just have to make this all about you, don’t you? Never mind that eight people died, and that Daddy’s in hospital and might never wake up. Oh, no—this must all be about the great Evangeline Bright.”
My mouth drops open, and for a long moment, I have no idea what to say. “Maisie, I’m not making this up—”
“And that’s the worst part,” she says. “That you actually believe it. Fine, there might be a mole—I’ll give you that. And yes, they’re feeding secrets to the Regal Record, which Ben also manipulated for his own personal gain. But as awful as last summer was, there is an entire universe between blackmail and the murder of eight people.”
“That doesn’t—”
“I’ve known Ben my entire life, Evan. He’s my cousin. I know how he thinks, what he’s capable of—”
“You didn’t seem to believe he was the one behind the video, either,” I say, my voice breaking again.
“No, but this is treason, Evan. This is—it’s unthinkable.” She shakes her head, her face twisted with incredulity. “He loves this family. He loves the monarchy, and he would never do anything to destroy it. I know he wouldn’t. You, on the other hand…”
Her words hit me like a semitruck, and as muffled voices sound in the corridor, I gawk at her, wondering if I’ve imagined this, too.
“What…?” I say, but it’s all I can manage to squeeze out of my rapidly tightening throat.
Something that might be a hint of regret flickers across Maisie’s face, but it’s gone before I’m sure it’s real. “You’re the only newcomer, Evangeline. Everyone else in my life has been there practically from the start, and they’ve proven time and time again that they’re loyal. But if you want to talk about who might be feeding information to the Regal Record, let’s look at you, shall we? Because you knew it all, too.”
I open and shut my mouth so many times that I feel like a fish trying to breathe. “Maisie, it wasn’t me—”
“And it wasn’t me, it wasn’t Gia, and it wasn’t Rosie,” she snarls. “I know why you hate Ben. I hate him, too. But everything that’s gone wrong in my life lately only happened after you showed up, and I’m beginning to think it isn’t a bloody coincidence.”
I try to speak—to defend myself, to swear it wasn’t me—but the words don’t come. And as the door opens once more, this time to a voice I recognize as Dr. Gupta’s, I slowly step back from the couch.
“That’s what I thought,” says Maisie with such searing malice that it feels like she’s ripped out some vital part of me and smashed it, too. “Leave, before I call security. And if you ever try to accuse my friends of treason again, I will make you regret the day you ever stepped foot in my country. Is that understood?”
My mouth is as dry as a desert, and I can’t speak, but I can’t nod, either. Because nodding feels like an admission somehow, and even though every bone in my body feels like it’s turned into concrete, I can’t give her that. Not when it isn’t true. Not when she has it all so impossibly wrong that I don’t know which way is up anymore.
Instead, as Gupta and his assistants file into the room, along with a small army of cleaners who immediately start picking up the glass, I turn around and slink toward the door. I wait for her to say something else—to get in a few last words, or maybe, impossibly, to take it all back. But she doesn’t. And as I step over the threshold and into the cold corridor beyond, it feels like the delicate fabric that is our relationship has shredded into threads, and nothing will ever be able to weave it back together.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Is it done?
no, and I won’t.
