“You have a text from Singh,” she mutters. “And possibly a dozen missed calls, unless he went directly to harassing me.”
I pull my phone out of my clutch, and sure enough, I have seven unread texts and four missed calls. “What happened?” I say, dread creeping in, and Kit’s hand slides over my knee.
“It’s John Phillip Michaels,” says Tibby, and my insides turn to ice. “He’s dead.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
John Phillip Michaels, leader of the ABR and the alleged architect behind the bombing of the Modern Music Museum that killed eight and critically injured His Majesty, has died by apparent suicide in his cell whilst awaiting trial on charges of treason, terrorism, and murder in the first degree.
He was 25.
—Breaking news alert from the BBC, 8:24p.m., 10 September 2024
John Phillip Michaels—Guy Fawkes—is dead.
I should feel relieved, and part of me is. The man in the teal scarf, who stalked me for weeks and actively tried to kill not only me, but also my father and Kit, is gone. I never have to worry about turning around and coming face to face with those chilling gold-rimmed eyes again.
But none of it makes sense, and as I stare at Singh’s text messages, the room starts to spin.
Singh
Need to talk ASAP.
Singh
Damn, premiere’s tonight. Calling now.
Singh
Good time for you to choose to pick up, Bright.
Singh
Bloody hell, you’re live on TV. Trying again in a minute.
Singh
Evangeline. This is important. Partying can wait.
Singh
Michaels is dead. Apparent suicide. Bloody guards let him keep his belt. Can’t say much more. Looking through footage now. Will update in a minute.
Singh
Footage missing. Might be nothing, but I’ve alerted your security. Calling Tibby now.
“Singh says there’s footage from the prison missing,” I say, my mouth painfully dry. This can’t be happening. “Why would there be footage missing?”
“He could’ve bribed the guards so there was no recording of his death,” says Kit. He’s pale, even in the dim light, and his grip on my knee tightens.
“Or someone else could’ve bribed them so they don’t know what really happened,” says Tibby, and it’s the first time I’ve heard her sound genuinely frightened. “It’s unlikely, but not impossible, especially with someone as high-profile as Michaels. And it seems like that’s what Singh is thinking, too.”
“You mean…” My pulse races. “Someone could’ve done this to him?”
“Or paid a guard to do it for them,” says Tibby, glancing at me. “We don’t happen to know anyone who likes to have other people do their dirty work, do we?”
My jaw tightens. “Is there any chance John really did…?” I can’t finish that sentence, not in front of Kit. But I don’t have to, because I’m already answering my own question. “No. Hewantedto go to trial and make sure everyone knew what he’d done and why he’d done it. There’s no way he would’ve deprived the entire world from hearing his—hismanifestoon why the monarchy deserves to be destroyed.”
