Brooke opened her phone and hit record.

  “Is your name Greta Patricia Burnham?” Mr. Greene asked.

  “Yes.” The bubble vibrated silently, then turned green, before fading slowly back to blue.

  “Are you twenty-three years old?”

  “Yes.”

  Geez, really? She looks a lot older. It was her makeup, Brooke decided. She wasn’t doing something right around her eyes. Winged her eyeliner too much, maybe? It isn’t doing her any favors.

  “Are you from Attaamy?”

  “Yes.” Green. Greta swiped at her mouth with a white handkerchief. She looked outwardly very calm and collected in her ash-gray suit and emerald-green blouse.

  “Were you at the front near Tupelo Crossing on the twenty-first of Fourth Month?”

  “Yes.” Green.

  “Did you see King Edward on that day?”

  “Yes.” Green.

  “Did he kiss you?”

  She paused, and Brooke could see tears dancing in her eyes.

  “Mrs. Burnham, answer the question, please.”

  “Yes,” she whispered. Green. The woman in black next to Saint leaned over and whispered something to him, and he nodded.

  “Did you tell anyone that day?”

  “No.” Green.

  “Did you tell someone later?”

  “Yes.” Green.

  “Did His Majesty ask you to turn a blind eye?”

  Brooke looked around; she’d never heard that expression before. What does that mean?

  “Yes.” Green.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt.” Saint’s deep voice startled her. “But I’m not familiar with that expression. Could you please explain it?”

  “Certainly, Captain,” Mr. Green said. “It means ‘Did he ask you to disregard what had happened?’”

  “Thank you.”

  Brooke noticed a lot of people scribbling down notes. Clearly, she wasn’t the only one who didn’t know what it meant.

  “Two more questions, Mrs. Burnham, and then we’ll be done.” Mr. Greene cleared his throat. “Do you live on Howard Street?”

  “No.” Green.

  “Did His Majesty try to contact you after the incident?”

  “No.” Green.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Burnham.” Greta stood, the bubble dissolving around her, tears silently streaming down her face, and Brooke wished she could give the poor woman a hug. Mrs. Burnham shook Mr. Greene’s hand, and then her lawyer and her husband were quickly whisking her from the conference room.

  Brooke stopped her phone recording, then cocked her head, listening. “That’s a sweet sound.”

  “What is?” Saint asked, his arms folded across his chest.

  “The sound of no one gloating.” She smiled, then turned on her high heels and walked out of the conference room without looking back.

  BROOKE LAY AWAKE IN bed that night. It was that one question that nagged at her still: turn a blind eye? Everyone else was confused by the administrator’s turn of phrase, but not Mrs. Burnham; she’d answered immediately. She’d known exactly what he meant. Brooke had already done an internet search for the phrase and found that it was a common phrase in Attaamy. But the polygraph administrator wouldn’t be likely to know that . . . and he wouldn’t be likely to know that Mrs. Burnham wasn’t from Orangiers; her accent was so light, Brooke would guess that most people missed it. Brooke turned on her computer and typed in the administrator’s name to do a background check. Her initial search produced junky results . . . others who were clearly too old or too young.

  She drummed her fingers on her desk, yawning. Why can’t I be the kind of person who just lets things go? Brooke felt herself taking the first steps of a journey that could take the rest of the night once she started the deep dive into the nooks and crannies of the subject . . . She read about polygraph tests. She read about the extensive training in magic that test administrators had to undergo. She read about infamous people who’d cheated the test—they’d used a false baseline by causing themselves pain when the true questions were asked, so that their variation seemed less noticeable between the truth and the lies. One cheater had used thumb tacks, another bit their tongue. The handkerchief. Why else would she wipe her mouth like that? Had she drawn blood?

  She read about Greta, what little she could find online. Perhaps there would be more in the library archives. She switched over to the online database and went through page after page . . . Her mind drifted back to the time she’d looked up Saint’s mother, and she wondered . . .

  Brooke had gained access into Attaamy’s public records for a story last year. What were the odds her login still worked? Of course there wasn’t a background check for Greta in Orangiers, but there might be a better one in Attaamy.

  GRETA PATRICIA BURNHAM

  Born on the fourth day of Third Month in the year 495 to Florence and Tegaard Barnswallow. One brother, Drake Silas Barnswallow. Deceased.

  Married to Ralph J. Burnham in the year 515.

  Silas. That was it: it had to be. Mr. Greene, or whoever he was, was her brother. And if they were related, he could’ve been building up a secondary relationship with the magic on her behalf; by basically thinking about her in the presence of the magic, he convinced it that she was friendly and allowed his casting to fall over her as well. They’d cheated.

  That’s why they both knew the expression; they were from the same place. Despite the early hour, Brooke took out her phone and dialed Mrs. Burnham’s number. It went immediately to voicemail.

  “Hi Greta, it’s Brooke Everleigh. Please call me when you get this; I need to meet with you, it’s urgent.”

  She would wait to be angry. She would wait until she talked to her first. She would give her the benefit of the doubt for a few more hours . . . and then, she would release her wrath.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  BROOKE WAS WAITING at the same café they’d met at originally, knee bouncing under the table, mug of tea empty already. Greta arrived with her husband, and her steps sped up as she caught Brooke’s fake joyful expression.

  “Greta! You did it, this is exactly the proof we needed to move forward. I’m so happy for you. Your article is going to be published tomorrow, as soon as I finish the write-up. Congratulations.” She shook the woman’s hand and didn’t miss her knowing glance at her husband. “I just have a few more questions for you. Will you sit?”

  “Certainly,” she said, smiling demurely. “What’s on your mind?”

  “I realize this might be painful, but in my research, I came across an article about your brother. It mentioned that he had died . . . Could you expand on the circumstances of his death?”

  She nodded soberly, but her husband put a hand on her elbow, his gaze sharpening.

  “What does this have to do with the incident?” Ralph asked.

  “Oh, it’s just part of the background. They wanted a wider profile.”

  Greta piped up. “It’s okay, lovebug. He was lost at sea, sadly, as a young man.”

  “Oh, how tragic. And they never found the body?”

  “I’m afraid not, no.”

  “He’s not living in Orangiers under an assumed identity, then?”

  Mrs. Burnham waited a beat too long to answer, her eyes bouncing around Brooke’s face, trying to read her, before she let out a quiet laugh. “Of course not.”

  Brooke pulled out the photograph she’d found of him on social media. “That’s funny, because he looks exactly like Mr. Greene.”

  “Woz-condemn-it,” Greta seethed. “You are not going to ruin this for me. I’ve worked too hard, put too much on the line to—”

  Brooke pointed a finger at her. “You lied to me.” She stood calmly to make her escape as the couple stared at her, openmouthed. “And even worse, you have spit on the struggle of people who have legitimately been injured by magic users like this. You’ll be hearing from the newspaper’s lawyer.”

  “He should never have been made king!” Greta screamed after her. “This is Edward’s own fault for marrying that matriarchal witch—Lincoln and Heather were born to rule, not waste away in exile!”

  Brooke walked faster, trying to get out onto the street, where there would be more onlookers in case they tried something violent. Maybe she should’ve brought someone with her, but she’d hoped so dearly that she’d been wrong. She rushed to meet the train that was just pulling in, and when she got back to work she walked straight into Miranda’s office.

  “We have to kill the Greta Burnham story.”

  Her editor turned her chair around, and Brooke saw that she was on the phone. She motioned for Brooke to sit, and Brooke closed the door before she complied.

  “Uh-huh. Yes, of course.” She listened for another moment before interjecting. “Love, someone’s just walked in, I’ve got to go.” She listened, massaging her temple with her free hand. “Yes. We’ll do that. I’ve got to go now. Talk to you soon.” She hung up. “Spill it.”

  “They made the whole thing up. Story’s dead. Polygraph administrator is her brother, he helped her cheat. They must’ve had someone else bend her mind and steal that ring. If I figured it out, someone else will, too. I’m sure Captain Saint is just behind me.”

  “In more ways than you know.”

  There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” Miranda called.

  Captain Saint entered. Of course. He shut the door behind him and sat down next to Brooke without being invited.

  “Made yourself comfortable?”

  “Not by half.” He grinned, and Brooke rolled her eyes, pursing her lips to keep a smile off them. He sobered then, handing a thumb drive to Miranda. “Here’s the evidence we discussed.”

  Miranda took the thumb drive and put it in her computer, which blinked to life. She motioned to Brooke to join her behind the desk. As she passed Saint, she pinched the back of his right arm and he jumped, glaring.

  Brooke leaned over to see the screen better, and Saint cleared his throat, staring pointedly at her chest; her neckline had dropped to reveal her cleavage, and she hauled it back up and held it with one hand, glaring at him.

  “What am I looking at?” Miranda asked, her voice even as ever.

  “This is security footage from the airfield in Imahara, when Edward left the front to escort Abelia across Gratha. The time and date are in the corner.” On the screen, a tall black man with a regal bearing walked across the terminal, and someone ran up to him and handed him a slip of paper he’d dropped. When he turned, they could see it was Edward’s face.

  “Left the front?” Brooke felt faint. “That was never . . .”

  “Never publicized? No. Most of our own troops didn’t even know that he’d gone. You can understand why we didn’t want this spread around, I’m sure. We’re only sharing it now to put this story to rest for good. It seemed necessary after the polygraph test yesterday.” His face showed no anxiety. Brooke wondered how he hid it so well. He could’ve showed her this weeks ago . . . but that would require something they hadn’t had then. Trust.

  Saint was taking a chance, showing it to them now. He must be more desperate than she’d realized. Crossing back to her seat, Brooke reached into her bag and pulled out a manila envelope.

  “Here.” She offered it to Saint, who hesitantly took it.

  “What’s this?”

  “Everything you need to prosecute Silas Greene and Greta and Ralph Burnham for slander and conspiracy.” She turned to Miranda. “Don’t worry, I’ve got copies. I’m going to go to home and write up the whole thing. I’ll have it on your desk by the morning.”

  “Wait.” Saint’s eyebrows were a deep V. “You can’t—”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll keep the video out of it. I’ve got plenty of evidence without it.” She paused. “Please tell the king I’m sorry.” Brooke walked out, unable to look at their faces for fear of reading pity or scorn on them. Both possibilities were equally horrible.

  She felt numb as she walked out of the offices. Several people congratulated her on her article, shook her hand. She didn’t correct them. They’d find out soon enough.

  Everyone would. Everyone would know how wrong she’d been. Everyone would see how she’d tried to destroy the king’s reputation, damage his image. Her boots felt filled with cement as she walked down the road, her shoulders bowed with a weight none could see. Not only had Greta used her, but that woman’s actions would now be used to prove why people shouldn’t listen to other people when they claimed they’d been mistreated or abused. And that pissed her off more than any damage to her career ever could. She’d given them a talking point that would hurt victims for years to come.

  Rather than writing, Brooke went home and worked out with a video, throwing all her weight into the cross-punches and nearly pulling a muscle on the roundhouse kicks. It helped a little. Then she wrote until it was time to go get Olly and tucked her laptop into her bag. She’d packed them a picnic dinner, and they could play and eat at the park until bedtime.

  She might as well make Olly happy today; she’d failed with everyone else.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  SAINT HAD JUST CRACKED open a celebratory beer when there was a faint, unsteady knock at his door. Buster lifted his head but didn’t bark. Saint paused his show and jogged over to the door, expecting James; he’d texted that he was coming over with birthday/victory cake. Saint was more than ready to relax after the week’s troubling events . . . He’d taken a chance, showing Brooke and her editor that video. She’d taken a bigger one, putting that evidence in his hands, especially after she’d just taken such a huge hit. It was too confusing to think about right now.

  But rather than his friend’s face, it was Brooke’s wide blue eyes that met him when he opened the door.

  “Hello, Captain,” said Oliver.

  “Hello, Olly. What are you doing out past bedtime, mate?”

  “Someone played in our apartment and made an awful mess while Mummy was out.”

  Saint’s eyes snapped to Brooke’s and she gave a slight nod.

  “Oh, that’s awful, mate. Come in, Everleighs, come in and take your shoes off. Are you hungry?” She just stared at him, like a statue someone had plunked down in front of his door.

  “I could eat,” Olly replied and tromped inside, plopping himself down on the couch. He laughed as Buster went nuts, licking his face, his tail knocking everything off the coffee table. “Can I watch the telly?”

  “It’s not for kids, mate—let me find you something better . . .” He grabbed his dog by the collar to get his attention, then snapped and pointed to his bed, and Buster slunk off to go lie down. “Brooke, come in.” His hand on her elbow revealed why she hadn’t come inside; she was trembling so badly, he didn’t know how she was still standing. He tucked her under his arm and led her inside, supporting her. His instinct was to pick her up and carry her, but he didn’t know how to explain that to Olly, who seemed to be largely untroubled by the evening’s events so far. Saint managed to get her to the kitchen table and into a chair. He rummaged around to find something edible for Olly. He held up a half-eaten bag of crisps he’d swiped from Bluffton, and she nodded faintly.

  Telly on kid stuff, Olly with the crisps, he knelt in front of Brooke.

  “Your place got broken into?”

  She nodded.

  “Are you hurt?”

  She shook her head.

  “You’re frightening me with your silent routine, Babbling Brooke . . .” He let his hand rest on her knee, and she started to cry. Shit.

  “Where’s your phone, love?”

  She patted her pockets until she found it and handed it to him.

  “You’ve not called your mum or the police . . . Would you like to do that now?”

  She shook her head vehemently, and her tears came faster.

  “Okay.” He held up his hands in surrender, setting her phone on the table. “Okay, bad idea.” Saint tried to think. Maybe I should call my mum to come over or at least advise me on the situation. She would probably not be thrilled about the idea of an unmarried woman sleeping in my house . . . She might insist they go to hers. But Olly would probably be more comfortable here. He did some inside-his-head cursing for a minute, then sighed.

  Brooke was still crying, watching him. “They wrote things on the door,” she whispered. “Bad things. I didn’t want Olly to see.”

  He got her a tissue and handed it to her, then knelt in front of her again. “You’ll stay here tonight, won’t you? Please?” A tiny smirk appeared at the corner of her mouth, and he grinned. “Oh, she thinks I’m begging. Very funny, woman. Don’t let my posture fool you; I have my pride.”

  “I’m sorry for crashing—” she started, but he cut her off.

  “Don’t. Don’t apologize, please. This isn’t your fault.” He put his hands on her knees and looked into her eyes. “Everleigh, this is not your fault, all right? Not Burnham, not Lincoln’s rabid supporters. None of this.”

  “Right,” she murmured, and her gaze went soft. “Thank you.” She brought up her hands to cover both of his, and he felt his heart begin to pound. It would be easy, so easy, to pull her forward and meet her lips with his own . . .

  When did I start thinking of her like that? Hastily, he pulled back, getting to his feet.

  “I’ll just go change the sheets. You two will have the bed, I’ll crash on the couch.”

  “No, don’t go to any trouble . . .”

  “Everleigh, this isn’t a discussion. Your sense of safety was violated tonight. You’ll get better rest in the bed. Woz knows I’ve slept on the couch a time or two anyway. It’ll be just fine for a few nights.”

  “My mum’s out of town, should be back day after tomorrow. We’ll be out of your hair then.”

  “You’re not in my hair now.” In my chest, maybe, mucking about. But not in my hair.

  He passed through the living room to find Olly asleep on the floor in front of the flashing TV, his hand still in the bag of crisps, and Saint chuckled. The smaller a person was, the more prone to ridiculous behavior they were, he thought to himself. Of course, there were outliers like James. And Abbie. But still.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18