“Let her go,” he says to Kit, even as he gestures for one of her PPOs lingering nearby to follow. “She’ll come to us when she’s ready.”
But as I watch her silhouette disappear into the unsettling shadows of Windsor Castle, I can’t imagine a time Maisie will ever be ready to accept that Rosie is gone. And I’m sure—as sure as I am that tonight will live in my memory for the rest of my life—that Maisie will never, ever forgive me for this.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Did the royal family arrange John Phillip Michaels’s death to cover up the truth about Evangeline Bright and Lord Clarence’s involvement in the ABR? Or is it a coincidence that the 25-year-old terrorist leader, who up until his death continued to insist that Evangeline played a key role in the January bombing of the Modern Music Museum, was found dead in his prison cell mere weeks before his trial was set to begin?
Who was powerful enough to have him killed? Who had the means, the motive, and the opportunity to do so? Only one family checks all those boxes, and it certainly wouldn’t be the first time they’ve gone to great lengths to cover up a royal secret—such as just how long the former Queen Helene and the Duke of York have been involved.
Click on the gallery below to go back in time on the journey of their forbidden love affair, from their hot and heavy touches at the premiere ofPrincess, Rebel, Terrorist, Spylast night to their adoring and intimate looks at Princess Mary’s christening in 2005.
That’s right, dear readers.2005.
—The Regal Record, 11 September 2024
In the three days betweenthe night of the premiere and the afternoon of Rosie’s funeral, not a single media outlet mentions her death.
It should be everywhere—one of Princess Mary’s best friends dying from poisoned chocolates while Kit and I watched, helplessto do a damn thing. I brace myself for the media onslaught the next day, and then the day after that, but it’s like it never even happened. In the papers and online, at least.
Maisie doesn’t leave her apartment for those entire three days. Kit and I don’t venture out from ours much, either, but we at least pretend to be human in the face of our—mostly Kit’s—grief. I’m still reeling from watching Rosie die and all the guilt that comes with knowing she thought those damn chocolates were from me, but he’s the one who really knew her. They’d been friends for years, and it wasn’t exactly a secret that she wanted to be more. She was infatuated with him, and the crushing regret of having used that against her back in January must cause him no end of shame.
Singh stops by twice—once the day after to clarify a few points in our statements, and once the morning of the funeral. As he settles into a seat at our dining table, Kit pulls me into our bedroom, everything about him riddled with anxiety.
“Ev,” he says quietly, as broken as I’ve ever seen him. “I know we’re part of this investigation, and there’s nothing we can do to excuse ourselves from it. But…” His brow knits, and I reach up to smooth it over, as if it’s that easy.
“But it’s a lot,” I whisper, and his Adam’s apple bobs.
“I can feel the seams in me coming undone, and all I can think about is—is what would’ve happened if Rosie had offered you the chocolates, too. Or if it had been something sprayed on the flowers, or…or…” He shakes his head, and I can see a slight tremor as he moves. “I don’t want to fall apart again, Ev, and it’s taking everything I have to hold myself together.”
I clasp his hands between mine, alarmed by how cold his are. “Oxford won’t happen again,” I say, keeping my voice low. “I promise. Have you spoken to your therapist since…?”
“No,” he admits. “I should. I keep meaning to.”
“Then how about this,” I say. “You stay here and call your therapist. Make an appointment for this morning or later today, after the funeral. And once that’s done, take a long, hot shower or—or bath, or whatever you think will relax you, okay? I’ll see what Singh wants.”
I raise his hands to my cheek, letting my warmth chase away the chill in his skin. Kit takes a few deep breaths, then nods. “Okay. You’ll tell me what he says?”
“Every word,” I promise. “Thank you for trusting me.”
“Always.” He slips his hands from mine only to hug me, holding me for a few beats longer than usual. I can feel his heart racing against my chest, thethud-thud-thuda reminder that this hasn’t fixed everything—maybe it hasn’t fixed anything at all—but at least we’re trying together this time. That’s the step we’ve been missing.
Once Kit has excused himself to make the call, I head back out into our shared sitting room to face Singh, two fresh breakfast trays, and the mountain of questions between us.
“We have no evidence that Prince Benedict or Dylan Baxter were involved,” says Singh, heading me off before I can speak. “Scotland Yard tracked down the delivery boy who dropped off the flowers and chocolates, and he’s clean.”
“He is?” I say, confused. “You’re sure it was the chocolates? Could it have been something else?”
Singh pours himself a cup of tea and dunks a cookie—biscuit—in the hot liquid. “It’ll be a while before toxicology can confirm, but they’re as sure as they can be that it was the chocolates. Good call on that,” he adds, as if that’s something I should be proud of. All I feel is slightly sick.
“Do you know where the packages came from?” I press. “Are there any more leads? There have to be, right? They didn’t just—appear.”
“We’re working on it,” he promises. “It’s early days yet. Very early days. These things take time.”
The urge to scream rises up within me, primal and so overwhelming that I almost can’t tamp it down. “It was Ben. Ithadto be Ben. There’s no one else who would come after Rosie—”
“She had some online stalkers we’re looking into,” he says. “A few exes that weren’t the kindest. We’re considering every avenue, Evan, and that includes ones that don’t fit your narrative.”
“I don’t care if they fit mynarrativeor not. I just want whoever did this to be found.”
