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“The day of the bombing?” she says, with a hint of skepticism. “You’re sure?”
“That’s not the kind of thing you forget,” I mutter. “But I think…I think Ben was trying to scare me. To make me believe I was losing my mind, or—that maybe I was showing signs of schizophrenia.”
Maisie scowls so deeply that she looks almost like a cartoon. “That’s ghastly. Why on earth would he do that?”
“I don’t know,” I say, slumping against the seat as I twist off the plastic cap. “Why is he sending me flowers? Why did he give me that photo album? Why did he tell me it should’ve been me? Why is he trying to convince me I’m having auditory hallucinations? It doesn’t make sense.”
Maisie takes a water for herself, and she drinks half of it before slowly setting her bottle down. “Yes, it does. He’s trying to discredit you. No one believes the mad girl, do they? That’s why he felt he could say those things to you—because you’ve already been cracking, and don’t deny it. I’ve known something was wrong for ages, but I thought it was—well, you know, getting shot. PTSD. That sort of thing.”
“The voices started before then,” I say, thinking back. “The morning you tried to get me and Kit to go hunting with you—the morning of the shooting. That’s when they began.”
Maisie sighs. “Well, it certainly fits the timeline, doesn’t it? Of Ben lurking about and being…Ben.”
“But why?” I press. “What’s the point? No one cares what I think or do. Why bother with all this in the first place?”
It’s the same question I’ve been asking myself for months. But even now, with so many new pieces of the puzzle snapping into place, I still can’t see the bigger picture—I still don’t understand why Ben is torturing me. And I’m beginning to wonder if I ever will.
“I don’t know,” says Maisie. “And neither do you, so let’s focus on what we do know, shall we? We do know that yesterday, someone poured turpentine all throughout Daddy’s apartment, including his bedroom, and set it on fire. But who was it?”
“Not me,” I say automatically, and Maisie rolls her eyes again.
“Yes, obviously. I’m not accusing you. Honestly, Evangeline, you’re too bloody sensitive sometimes.”
“I’m not—” I pause and sip my water. It isn’t worth the fight. “You really believe me?”
“Of course I do,” she says with a faint wheeze. “The fire started in Daddy’s apartment, and your mother’s the only one staying there at the moment. You have no reason to hurt her. If anything, you go a bit feral whenever anyone so much as insinuates that she’s not the single greatest human being on the planet—”
“You think whoever did this wanted to hurt my mom?” I say, stunned. But now that she’s said it, it makes perfect sense, and a wave of nausea hits me.
“Well, yes,” says Maisie. “I suppose they could’ve been coming after me, considering how close my rooms are to his, but it seems a rather roundabout way of assassinating someone, doesn’t it?”
My mind is racing again, and I take another sip of water in hopes of calming my roiling stomach. “If they were going after my mom, why yesterday? Because she finally came back from the hospital? Was it their only opportunity? But it can’t be, not when she’s been staying at the castle for weeks. The whole staff knew. The family, everyone—”
I freeze, and Maisie leans in, her blue eyes bright. “What?” she says. “I know that look, Evan. What is it? Tell me.”
“I—” I swallow painfully. “You’re not going to like it.”
“I don’t bloody care,” she says, breathless again. “Spit it out already.”
The last thing I want to do is reignite the fight we had yesterday, but I don’t have a choice. Not really. Besides, it all makes sense, and I hate myself a little for not seeing it sooner.
“When my mom and I got back from the hospital yesterday…” I hesitate again. “I ran into Rosie, right by Alexander’s apartment. My mom went inside, and…Rosie asked me about her.”
“What did she say?” says Maisie, and I can hear the familiar defensiveness in her voice already.
“Something about how she had no idea that my mom was staying in Alexander’s suite. That she’d thought she’d gone back to Virginia, and…” I take another sip of my water, but it does nothing to alleviate the dryness in my throat. “I don’t know. The whole thing was weird. She almost seemed guilty, and she kept saying she had no idea, but…”
I trail off. Maisie isn’t looking at me anymore, and there’s a strange expression on her face as she types something into the tablet. A moment later, the Regal Record appears. The latest headline announces the fire, and as Maisie skims past the article that follows, I spot my name alongside a history of arson. And even though I should expect it—even though I know I’ve already been linked to the ABR, and no one in the country will give me the benefit of the doubt now—the reality of what’s happening outside our isolated palace bubble hits me like a brick wall.
Everyone hates me. The Daily Sun, the Regal Record, every troll on social media—no doubt they’re claiming that I’m the one who set the fire that could’ve killed my sister. Worse, I have no defense except my word. Because I was there that night. The turpentine was in my room. And even though I know it’s all some twisted setup, most of the world already believes I was involved in the bombing, and I’m coldly certain that they won’t think twice before accepting this as the truth, too.
It doesn’t matter that I didn’t do it. No amount of innocence will ever wipe the slate clean, and for as long as I live, these whispers will follow me around, one more black mark on an already scandalous list. Treasonous list, now, with the bombing and two attempted murders to add to my count.
At last Maisie turns the tablet toward me again, and I see the headline she was searching for, time-stamped shortly after midnight.
While Alexander Fights for His Life, Laura Plays Wife
I blink once, twice, certain I’m reading it wrong, or at the very least making connections that aren’t really there. But at the same time, I know I’m not—for exactly the same reason that, even though this article is made up of rumors and anonymous sources that add up to nothing but hot air, it happens to be right. That all the articles on the Regal Record happen to be right.
