“There was some trouble at the start,” he admits. “Whoever did it sent a…er, bouquet and some chocolates we suspect were laced with poison, and they did so under Evan’s name.”
My mom hugs me tighter before letting me go. “We heard,” she says, giving me a once-over. I’m still in the awful scarlet gown, though the oversized train is now wrapped around my bare shoulders like a shawl. “Singh said he sorted it out, though?”
“He did,” says Tibby, joining us from the front of the Range Rover. “They’re gathering footage from Rosie’s security system to find out more about the delivery, since she didn’t leave the house after her morning walk. But that’s all he was able to pass on to us before they let us go.”
Alexander curses quietly. “The palace lawyers are on it,” he promises. “And the police have agreed to a media blackout regarding your involvement. We’ll sort this all out before the press can hurl any fresh allegations.”
I don’t care about any of that. I should, probably, but somehow getting accused of terrorism and trying to murder my own father has numbed me to any other accusations, especially when they’re so blatantly false. “Rosie’s dead,” I say—the first time I’ve spoken the words out loud. “Ben was behind it. Iknowhe was. The bouquet—there was a gerbera daisy, exactly like the ones he sent me—and Guy Fawkes—John Phillip Michaels—he’s dead, too. It’s not a coincidence. It can’t be. He’s tying up loose ends, and Rosie’s one of them.”
My mother and father exchange a look. “We spoke to Singh as soon as they released you,” says Alexander. “And he agrees that that’s the most likely scenario. We all do, Evie. The problemis—”
“Evidence,” I say with a heavy sigh, as if the word is escaping me like air from a deflating balloon. “But how are we supposed to find any if he keeps using other people and covering his tracks? He killedRosie.He can’t just get away with—”
A pair of headlights flashes at the gate, and we all look as another Range Rover approaches. Confused, I glance at Kit, but horror slowly dawns on his face, and it takes me a moment to catch up.
There’s only one member of the family with the nerve to come home at four o’clock in the morning. And if she’s been partying since the premiere…
“You didn’t have to wait up,” says Maisie as she opens her own door. Her heels hang from the tips of her fingers, and her hair is slightly mussed as she steps onto the gravel drive barefoot. “Kit, Evan—where on earth have you two been? The entire audience was buzzing about where you’d run off to after the premiere, and do you know who they asked?Me.Again and again, like I’m your bloody minder.”
Maisie doesn’t know. Wherever she’s been, no one has bothered to text her. No one’s told her that her lifelong best friend died tonight.
“Maisie…” says Alexander when it becomes apparent no one else is going to speak.
“Daddy, I’m an adult,” she says as she picks her way across the gravel to the smooth stone walkway. “I can stay out as late as I want.”
“It’s not that,” says Kit, his voice thick. This must be enough of a hint to catch Maisie’s attention, because she immediately looks at him, her brow furrowed.
“Then what is it?” she says. “Is it Thaddeus? Because he’s back at his hotel, and we didn’t do anything. We just went to a few after-parties and a club or two, nothing outrageous. Nothing for the press to get their knickers in a—”
“It’s Rosie,” I say with as much gentleness as I can muster, because it shouldn’t be Kit. It shouldn’t be Alexander. The news won’t be any easier to hear from them, and they’re both already on shaky ground with her. But my so-called relationship with my sister is completely torched. “She—she’s gone.”
Maisie stares at me for a terrible moment that seems to twist in on itself like a fun house mirror, the world between us distorting until nothing makes sense anymore. “Rosie?” she says at last, the ghost of a scoff in her voice. “What are you talking about? She hasn’t gone anywhere. You were yelling at me this morning about—about—”
“I’m sorry, Mais,” says Kit quietly, and he reaches out to touch her, only for her to rip her arm away. “We think Ben poisoned her. There’s an investigation, and—”
“What are you saying?” says Maisie shakily, and she drops her heels on the ground. “Rosie isn’t gone. She’s not—bloody hell, Kit,what are you saying?”
Kit’s throat constricts, and one look tells me he’s struggling to hold himself together. “Rosie—” he tries, but his voice breaks, and even in the low light, I can see the tears shining in his puffyeyes.
“Rosie is dead,” I manage thickly, because there’s no other way to say it now. “She called me at the premiere when she heard about Michaels’s death. She was afraid Ben was coming after her, and so Kit, Tibby, and I headed over to her place to—to see her. But it was too late. There was a bouquet—roses and a daisy, just like the ones Ben sends me—and a half-eaten box of chocolates. As soon as we saw the flowers, we tried to get her out of there, but…the chocolates must have been poisoned, because she seized, and…everyone did everything they could. They worked on her for—for a really long time. But…” Now my voice catches, and I take a deep breath. “I’m so sorry, Maisie. She didn’t make it.”
My sister stares at me like I’m something so nightmarishlysurreal that she can’t comprehend what she’s looking at, and I know that feeling. I felt it the day I discovered why my mother lost custody of me, and I felt it when I saw Ingrid’s unrecognizable body next to mine in the bombing. I felt it tonight, too, seeing Rosie lying there with her eyes open, staring at nothing with pink foam at the corners of her mouth, and—
I squeeze my eyes shut and push the mental image away, even though I know it won’t go far. And that’s when I feel the sharp sting against my cheek.
A slap. Maisie slapped me.
“You’re lying,” she snarls, but she’s trembling now as she bends over to pick up her shoes. “You’re all lying. Whatever this is—it isn’t funny. It isn’tfunny.”
She turns to Alexander, who leans heavily on his cane, but when he grimaces and says nothing, I can see both the hope and fury die in her eyes.
“Daddy,” she says, and there’s a note of pleading in her voice. “It’s not true. Rosie would never—she can’t—”
Maisie cuts herself off like she’s choking on the words, her shoulders shaking with grief as reality sets in. Kit reaches for her once more, but she jerks away yet again.
“Don’ttouchme,” she gasps, doubling over as if someone’s punched her in the gut. “Don’t—bloody—”
And then she’s running across the sharp gravel, to the immaculately kept grass and into the dark garden beyond. Kit makes a move to go after her, but Alexander shakes his head.
