Grier pulls out a yellow legal pad and a gold fountain pen. He settles in the chair across from mine.
“I’m going to make this go away,” he promises. “But first I need to know what we’re dealing with here. From what I’ve managed to squeeze out of the officers in charge of the investigation, there’s security footage of you entering the O’Halloran penthouse at eight forty-five tonight. That same footage shows you leaving about twenty minutes later.”
My gaze darts around the room, searching for cameras or recording equipment. There’s no mirror in here, so I don’t think there’s anyone watching us from some shadowy second room. Or at least I hope not.
“Everything we say in here is between us,” Grier assures me when he notices my wary expression. “They can’t record us. Lawyer/client privileges and all that.”
I release a slow breath. “Yeah. I was at the penthouse earlier. But I didn’t fucking kill her.”
Grier nods. “All right.” He jots something down on his notepad. “Let’s go back even earlier. I want you to start from the beginning. Tell me about you and Brooke Davidson. No detail is too small. I need to know everything.”
I swallow a sigh. Awesome. This is going to be fun.
2
Ella
The Royal boys have rooms in the south wing, whereas their dad’s suites are on the other side of the mansion, so I hook a right at the top of the stairs and hurry across the gleaming hardwood toward Easton’s door. He doesn’t answer at my soft knock. I swear, that boy could sleep through a hurricane. I knock a bit louder. When I hear nothing, I push the door open to find Easton sprawled facedown on the bed.
I march over and shake his shoulder. He moans something.
I shake him again, panic bubbling in my throat. How is he still sound asleep? How had he slept through all the commotion that just happened downstairs?
“Easton!” I burst out. “Wake up!”
“What is it?” he grumbles, one eyelid slitting open. “Shit, is it time to go to practice?”
He rolls all the way over, pulling the blankets with him and revealing a lot more skin than I need to see. On the floor I find a pair of discarded sweatpants and toss them on the bed. They land on his head.
“Get up,” I beg.
“Why?”
“Because the sky is falling!”
He blinks groggily. “Huh?”
“Shit’s bad!” I yell, then force myself to take a deep breath, trying to calm down. It doesn’t work. “Just meet me in Reed’s room, okay?” I snap.
He must hear the uncontrollable anxiety in my voice, because he tumbles out of bed without delay. I see another flash of bare skin before I duck out the door.
Rather than go to Reed’s room, I sprint across the wide hallway toward my own bedroom. This house is ridiculously large, ridiculously beautiful, but everyone inside of it is so messed up. Including me.
I guess I really am a Royal.
But no, I’m really not. The man downstairs is a glaring reminder of that. Steve O’Halloran. My not-so-dead father.
A wave of emotion sweeps over me, threatening to buckle my knees and send me into a bout of hysterics. I feel terrible about just leaving him down there. I didn’t even introduce myself before spinning on my heel and running upstairs. Granted, Callum Royal did the same thing. He was so racked with concern for Reed that he simply blurted out, “I can’t deal with this right now. Steve, wait here for me,” and then flew into his car and took off for the police station.
Despite my guilt, I push Steve into a tiny box in the back of my mind and slap a steel lid on top. I can’t think about him right now. My focus needs to be on Reed.
In my room, I waste no time sliding my backpack out from under my huge bed. I always keep it in a place where I can easily access it. I unzip the pack and sigh in relief when I see the leather wallet that holds the monthly cash payments I get from Callum.
When I first moved here, Callum promised to pay me ten thousand dollars a month as long as I didn’t try to run. As much as I hated the Royal mansion at the beginning, it wasn’t long before I grew to love it. These days, I can’t imagine living anywhere else—I’d stay even if I didn’t have the cash incentive. But because of my years of living without any cash—and my generally suspicious nature—I never told Callum to stop.
Now I’m eternally grateful for that incentive. There’s enough money in my bag to sustain me for months, probably longer.
I shoulder the backpack and then hurry toward Reed’s door at the same time Easton emerges into the hall. His dark hair is sticking up in a hundred different directions, but at least he’s got pants on now.
“What the fuck is going on?” he demands as he follows me into his older brother’s bedroom.
I throw open the doors of Reed’s walk-in closet, my gaze frantically darting around the large space. I find what I’m looking for on a low shelf in the back.
“Ella?” Easton prompts.