“K-Kit?” she manages. “I didn’t know you were coming, too.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “We both wanted to make sure you were all right. Is that okay?”
Rosie takes a moment to consider it, but at last she nods, a tiny gesture that isn’t at all convincing. Still, she steps aside to give us room to enter the foyer, and as we do so, an adorable white dog much smaller than Poppy trots into the room.
“Oh, hi,” I say, bending down as much as I can in this scarlet atrocity of a dress. “You must be Snickers.”
His little tail wags as I scratch him behind the ears, and Rosie walks listlessly into the white marble kitchen. It’s sizable for London, and it’s more of an aesthetic than a functional space, which isn’t surprising when it comes to Rosie and her obsession with social media.
“He doesn’t usually like strangers,” she says, perching on a white leather barstool beside a massive bouquet of pink and red roses. She reaches into an unwrapped magenta gift box on the counter, pulling out a chocolate. “But I suppose you’re not really a stranger. I’ve told him all about you.”
“You have?” I say, and as I join her, Snickers disappears into another room, his tail still wagging. “He’s really sweet. How old is he?”
“Seventeen months.” She nibbles on the chocolate, staring at the intricate design. “The guard outside said you hired his firm,Kit?”
Kit nods, and he heads toward the electric kettle to boil some water, presumably for tea. “We were hoping for palace security to step in, but with the event tonight, there was no one to spare,” he says, and I can sense the guilt rolling off him. “We didn’t want to leave you vulnerable, even for a day.”
She sniffs and looks him in the eye at last. “Thank you. It means a lot to me and Snickers. And thank you for coming by. You really didn’t have to.”
“I think we did.” I study Rosie. She’s in sweats—the worn kind most people never leave the house in, not the designer type, and her curly blond hair is lank and a little greasy at the roots. She looks terrible, and suddenly I’m glad we’re here. Not that we can really do much other than sit with her, but at least it’s something.
“The flowers are really pretty, too,” says Rosie, and one of her dimples appears as she offers me a tiny smile. “Maybe a little overboard, but I really appreciate them. They’re beautiful.”
“Flowers?” I say, confused, but she’s already rearranging the giant vase of roses. “Oh—those?”
“Of course,” she says, her smile growing, and she looks behind me, to where Tibby is lingering by the door, no doubt watching the time like a hawk. “Tibby, did you send them and put Evan’s name on them?”
“Send what?” says Tibby, sounding distracted. “The flowers? Er—no, I’m afraid not. Perhaps Fitz did?”
Rosie’s expression falls. “No, Maisie hasn’t spoken to me since…well, you know.” Her throat constricts, and I frown.
“She hasn’t reached out to you since January?”
“Of course not,” says Rosie with a sigh that speaks volumes. “It’s all right. I didn’t expect her to, not after…”
I press my lips together. I’m not sure I can fault Maisie for that one, not after Rosie’s involvement with the fire and blatant betrayal. But considering how close the two were for nearly all their lives, part of me—the part of me that thinks I know my sister better than I clearly do—expected Maisie to at least reach out to…I don’t know. Yell at Rosie. Or find some sense of closure. But then again, maybe that was Gia’s influence on her. Maybe Gia was the glue holding the three of them together, and with her gone, there’s no hope for reconciliation between Maisie and Rosie, either.
The thought is devastating, and I’m trying not to picture the way Maisie was watching Gia from across the lobby less than an hour ago when suddenly I see it. Tucked among the roses, nestled in a clump of crimson and blending in so well that at first I think it’s an illusion. But it isn’t.
A single blood-red gerbera daisy.
“Rosie,” I say, a fireball of panic forming in my chest. “How do you know these came from me?”
“The note, silly,” she says, and she hands me a plain but heavy card that rests beside the vase.
Dearest Rosie,
I’m sorry you couldn’t be at the premiere tonight. Thinking of you and the part you played in our journey.
Love,
Evangeline
The handwriting looks nothing like mine, and I sure as hell wouldn’t use “dearest” as an opening. Or sign it with “love” when Rosie and I barely know each other. My heart is pounding, and I set the card down, careful not to touch more of it than I alreadyhave.
“We need to get out of here,” I say, searching the kitchen as if Ben is lurking in the shadows, ready to strike.“Now.”
“You’re scaring me,” says Rosie, her eyes wide as she pinches another bonbon between her fingers. “What’s going on? Evan—”
