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“Lord Clarence’s personal items have also been returned to him,” he says. “Other than the emails and messages he exchanged with members of Fox Rex, all of which he shared willingly, we found nothing to connect either of you with the bombing.”

It isn’t until that moment that I realize part of me—a miniscule part, but one that still exists—worried that Kit was lying, and that something on his devices would incriminate him. Maybe both of us. But as I watch my phone boot up, my eyes sting with tears, and I nod mutely.

Kit’s innocent. We’re both innocent. And someone is still coming after us with everything they’ve—he’s—got.

“I took the liberty of adding my direct number to your contacts,” says Singh after it becomes clear I can’t speak. “Not strictly aboveboard, but I thought it would be best if you had an easy way to keep in touch, should anything else pop up. I’m on your side, Evangeline,” he adds. “I believe someone close to the royal family is framing you, with the assistance of the ABR. And whoever it is, I’m as keen to catch them as you are.”

We both know exactly who it is, but all I can manage is another nod as I wipe my eyes with my sleeve. Even if I could form words right now, there’s no use making my case again, not when I don’t have proof. But Singh’s support is an antidote to Helene’s poison, and I almost—almost—believe him.

Singh opens the door to the Range Rover, and a blast of heat emanates from inside. “Keep in touch, Miss Bright,” he says. “This is unlikely to be the end of it, I’m afraid, but if you and I are both lucky, perhaps we might find a way to help each other.”

I have no idea what that means, but he doesn’t elaborate as I climb into the SUV. Without another word, he closes the door behind me, and even though the windows are tinted, I can feel his gaze on me for a long moment before he heads back inside.

Closing my eyes, I try to take a deep breath to calm myself down. My irritated lungs aren’t thrilled with the concept, however, and I end up in the middle of a coughing fit, painfully aware of the driver watching me through the rearview mirror.

“Good morning, Miss Bright,” he says as soon as the coughs subside. “Where would you like to go?”

“The hospital,” I say. “I want to visit my dad.”

He nods, and as he radios in our location, I tug on the seat belt. It locks up before I can pull it all the way across my body, and I mutter to myself, vaguely wondering how this day could possibly get any worse—and that’s when I hear it.

“Evangeline.”

The sound of my name echoes off the brick and stone courtyard, and I clench my jaw. Not again. Not here—not now, not when everything else is falling apart.

“Evangeline.”

As the Range Rover starts to roll down the concrete drive, my name grows louder, and I resist the urge to cover my ears. It won’t help, not when it’s in my head. But without any warning, the driver hits the brakes, and I have to catch myself on the seat in front of me.

“Evangeline!”

This time, when I hear my name, it’s through the door, and I do a double take when I realize that Maisie’s on the other side. She’s breathing heavily, and Helene and Nicholas rush out of Apartment 1A after her, but there’s a determined look in her eye that I know better than to challenge.

“Will you open the bloody door?” she says, exasperated, and I fumble with the handle until it pops open.

“Maisie? What are you—”

“Move,” she orders, and I hastily shift to the other seat. Helene and Nicholas shout Maisie’s name as they hurry across the courtyard, but she ignores them and slams the door shut. “Palace Gardens Terrace, Matthew,” she says to the driver. “You know the number.”

“Yes, Your Royal Highness,” he says, and seconds before Helene and Nicholas reach the Range Rover, we take off, and neither Maisie nor I look back.

It’s only as we pass through the gate and onto the main road that I realize Maisie is clutching a tablet—the same one Stephens was holding minutes earlier. “You should be resting,” I say. “Not—whatever this is.”

“You sound uncannily like Mummy,” she mutters, waking the screen. “And I’m going with you. I would’ve thought that was obvious.”

“Yes, but—why?” I say. Maybe it’s a question I shouldn’t be asking, but I can’t help myself, not after our argument the night before.

“Because,” she says simply, and she hands me the tablet. “You’re right about Ben. And I’ve found proof.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

We at the Regal Record have exclusively learned that while His Majesty fights for his life, Laura Bright, his reported mistress, is treating the King’s private apartment as her own—and even sleeping in his bed.

While one might argue that this is nothing short of expected for a woman who’s spent more than two decades chipping away at the marriage between the King and Queen, to do so while His Majesty remains hospitalized in a critical state is perhaps Laura’s most audacious move yet. Palace insiders claim that even after the revelation that her daughter, Evangeline, is working with the Army of the British Republic, Laura has insisted on spending much of her time ordering around the household staff, in anticipation of His Majesty’s recovery.

“She’s delusional,” says an anonymous royal insider. “Maybe it’s her illness, but she really is acting like she’ll be queen someday.”

As our country is thrown into chaos in the wake of the terrorist attack that claimed the lives of eight people, one would hope that Ms Bright might spare us all the reminder that a home-wrecker remains at Windsor Castle—and that the British people are paying for her royal accommodations.