Word of Reed’s arrest spreads like a prairie fire. While working the register at the bakery, I can hear the aborted whispers and feel the weight of covert stares. The Royal name is mentioned frequently. One fashionable elderly lady who comes in every Monday for a blueberry scone and a cup of Earl Grey tea point-blank asks me, “Are you that Royal ward?”
“Yes.” I swipe her heavy platinum card and hand it back.
She presses her pink-painted lips together. “Doesn’t seem like a good environment for a young lady.”
“It’s the best home I’ve ever had.” My cheeks burn, part embarrassment and part indignation.
For all their faults—and the Royals have many—my statement is entirely truthful. I’ve never had it better. For the first seventeen years of my life, I lived with my flighty mother, one foot in the gutter, one hand reaching for the sky. At any given moment, I wasn’t sure we’d have enough to eat during the day and a roof over our heads at night.
“You seem like a nice girl.” The lady sniffs, her whole demeanor saying that she’s reserving judgment on that comment.
I know what she’s thinking—I might be a nice girl, but I live with those evil Royals and one of them is on the front page of the Bayview News as a potential suspect in the death of Brooke Davidson. Not many people know who Brooke is, other than she was the sometime companion of Callum Royal. But everyone knows the Royals. They’re the biggest employer in Bayview, if not the state.
“Thanks. I’ll bring out your stuff when it’s ready.” I dismiss her with a polite smile and turn to the next patron, a younger professional woman who’s clearly torn between wanting to hear the gossip and wanting to make whatever early morning appointment she’s all dressed up for.
At the wave of my hand for her card, she makes the quick decision that she can’t be late. Good call, lady.
The line moves on, and so do the comments, some hushed, some intentionally carrying across the small café. I ignore them all. So does my boss, Lucy, although her ignorance stems from busyness rather than deliberate indifference.
“Weird morning, isn’t it?” Lucy says as I’m hanging up my apron on the back hook. She’s elbows-deep in flour.
“Why do you say that?” I feign ignorance.
From the racks of cooling baked goods, I pluck an extra muffin and donut for Reed. If it were me, I wouldn’t be able to eat a bite, but that boy seems to have a stomach of steel. Apparently being accused of murder doesn’t faze him one bit.
Lucy shrugs. “Vibe seems off. Everyone’s quiet this morning.”
“It’s Monday,” I say, and that reply seems to satisfy her.
After all my goodies are packed away, I sling my backpack over my shoulder and make the short walk to Astor Park. It’s hard to believe that only a few months have passed since I started school here. Time flies when you’re fighting bullies and falling in love.
Only Easton is waiting for me on the front steps when I arrive from the bakery. I frown, because usually Reed is with him, but my man is nowhere to be seen. It’s clear by the acre of space around Easton that the Astor Park kids are all up-to-date on their daily news. Any other day and this gorgeous boy would be surrounded by girls.
“What’d you bring me, sis?” Easton jogs over to snatch the white pastry box from my hands.
“Donuts, muffins.” I look around again. “Where’s Reed?”
Easton doesn’t look up from his examination of the goodie box, so I can’t make out his expression. I do notice that his shoulders tense up a little. “Talking to Coach,” is all he says.
“Oh. Okay. Like, a meeting or something?”
“Or something.”
I narrow my eyes. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Before he can respond, Val comes strolling over to us.
“Hey, girl!” She flings an arm around my shoulder. Either she hasn’t read the papers yet or doesn’t care. I’m hoping it’s the latter.
“Hey, Val.” As I greet her, I don’t miss the relief on Easton’s face. He’s definitely keeping something from me.
Val’s gaze falls to the box in Easton’s hand. “Tell me you have something for me,” she begs.
“Chocolate chip muffin.” I smile wryly as she grabs the muffin and takes a huge bite. “Bad morning?”
“You have no idea. Jordan’s alarm went off at five this morning and she slept through Katy Perry’s “Rise” for five repeats. I officially hate Katy Perry and Jordan.”
“That’s what makes you hate Jordan?” In the chronicles of mean girls, Jordan Carrington might be the patron saint. There are so many things to hate her for other than her music taste.
Val laughs. “Among other things. Anyway, you’re a goddess. And a trooper, because your morning must be a million times worse than mine.”