Her next call was to the person she thought would be most likely and able to help her, if he could. Maxence Grimaldi was Pierre’s younger brother and the second in line for Monaco’sthrone. He should have some clout around the Prince’s Palace. Surely he could help her get the hell out.
The voice mailbox picked up the call, stating that his inbox was full and could not accept any more messages.
A text to him returned to the phone, tagged asundeliverable.
He had probably gone back to the far reaches of Africa, where her calls couldn’t reach him.
She checked Max’s meagersocial media by logging in through Pierre’s apps, where she saw that Max’s private accounts had only a few friends, mostly men wearing Roman collars or people whose jobs were described as “International Aid Worker” or “Humanitarian Relief.” Max hadn’t posted or interacted with anyone for months.
So, Max was out.
Flicka sucked in a deep breath and dialed the phone number for Christine Grimaldi,her old friend from school and music and Pierre’s cousin, which meant Christine was fourth in line for the throne. Flicka readied herself to whisper-shout, “Christine-baby!”when Christine answered the call, but she had to do it quietly because someone might overhear and take the phone away from her.
Christine’s voicemail picked up, stating that her inbox was full and was not accepting more messages.A text to her was also undeliverable.
Dang it,didn’t any of these Grimaldieverforward their phones when they left Europe? Christine was a violinist with the Monaco Philharmonic, and Flicka did remember hearing that they were performing in Canada that night. Surely, the Monaco Phil would be playing at the Prince’s Winter Ball in a few days, which would be held whether or not Prince Rainer IVwas dead by then. The Prince’s Winter Ball was an important social event, attended by billionaires and heads of state who were heavily invested in Monaco. Christine would have to be back for that. As a noble herself, and indeed fourth in line for the throne, Lady Christine Grimaldi would be expected to attend.
Who else?
Desperate times called for desperate measures.
She dialed, and the phonerang, but Christine’s older brother Alexandre Grimaldi didn’t pick up, either.
That was probably for the best.
It wasn’t that she didn’t like Alex. She did. They’d been close friends as children atLe Roseytogether. They’d spent a lot of time in cars together, being driven to music lessons.
But as Alexandre had become older and more damaged, he began to scare her. He scared everyone.
Flickahad been the closest thing to a witness, the first time he’d killed someone. She’d had to testify that she’d seen him covered with blood and trying to commit suicide by snow.
Flicka stared at the phone and then tried several of her other friends: Georgie Johnson (who had not changed her name when she’d married Alexandre Grimaldi), Josephine Alexandrovna, and Kira of Prussia were all out of thecountry or somehow unavailable.
Flicka called a local restaurant to check whether Pierre’s phone was working at all, but the restaurant picked up their damn phone.
She considered ordering a triple order of chocolate mousse for delivery but did not. Mariah would find out somehow and assign her a thousand squats or something at their next pre-dawn workout.
Flicka methodically deleted all tracesthat she had used the phone, wiping away texts and call records to everyone. She used a towel to rub her fingerprints off the screen and case.
Later that day, she would sneak it back into Pierre’s office, so it would look as if she’d never had access to it. Bodyguards were much easier to slip past if they think you’re not planning anything.
After Alina’s nap, Flicka informed palace securityand housekeeping that she wished to be moved to the Princess Grace suite, a lovely set of rooms that overlooked the swimming pool. Its most important feature was that it had two bedrooms, so Alina could have her own room and feel secure enough to, hopefully, sleep in her own bed instead of in Flicka’s.
The child kicked like a ninja in her sleep. She’d never even heard of children doing that.Children were supposed to sleep like angels in repose, right?
The deep bruise on Flicka’s ribs suggested otherwise.
