Like a wave, anger rolls over her features, lingering on her lips a second longer. “He struggled to see how good I could be with her always around. In the end, I won. I didn’t get just one night with him. I got her life. I sit on her throne, ruling her empire, and did what she failed to do—produce an heir.”
Her cruelty shows no bounds, and she has no room in her black heart for the light of love. How can she be so delusional to think she achieved something? I wonder if she killed Madeline by how she speaks of her. My nerves clog in my throat, and I’m in over my head when it comes to her. How do I reason with the depraved? I don’t. I just keep going until I get what I need from her. “He believed Alexander was his son?”
“Don’t be silly, Sara Jane.” The scoff comes on the end of a snarl. “His father forced his hand. He would have lost everything—his inheritance, his trust, his status—at the hands of his father if he didn’t take Alexander in.” She sips her wine, as if this conversation is between friends. “Is this where you get me to spill the details of how I pulled off the greatest caper in Kingwood history?”
“If this is true, you may have,” I say, deciding to feed her ego.
Sitting back, she looks toward the gardens, that familiar distance reemerging. I wonder if it’s the conversation or the aftereffects of drugs that control her mind.
The memory isn’t sweet as her face contorts in pain that comes like whiplash. “My baby was so beautiful. He had my eyes and a little nose that everyone knew would be noble like his father’s. It didn’t matter that I was from a prestigious family of blue bloods. His reputation was more important than I ever would be. I was nothing to him. My baby was gold though. I had produced a Kingwood heir. Holding my baby in my arms, I remember thinking I didn’t care about money or Kingwoods. I had my Alexander who needed me. Someone who would always love me. And then he was taken from me. They thought they could destroy me. They tried, but I lived, and I survived. And no matter how much you want to bury the truth, it will always come out. That kind of lie doesn’t stay hidden for generations.”
“What happened, April? How did they take him?”
“Alex the third, came to me one night and told me he would take care of me. He would help raise the baby. Instead of being raised as his brother, Alexander Kingwood the fourth would be raised as his son.”
“But why?”
The pain in her expression seems genuine when she replies, “It would save the empire they had built. His father’s affair would never come out, and the third would still inherit the kingdom.” Leaning forward, she adds, “They both benefitted from the arrangement. The third would have the heir he was unable to produce, and the lion’s share of the kingdom until his death. However, I didn’t realize his version of taking care of me meant he’d attempt to kill me.”
Taking another large sip of her wine, she looks me up and down. I’ve somehow earned a level of respect in the last few minutes. “I’m impressed. The little schoolgirl from the north side of town has quite the clever mind. You’ve also managed to do what I couldn’t.”
The little schoolgirl? “Which is?”
“Get a Kingwood to fall in love with you.”
“I didn’t get him to fall in love with me.”
“You’re right. That’s why it’s so painful to go through this process.”
“Process?”
Patting my hand condescendingly, she remarks, “You’re too trusting.”
“That’s a bad thing?”
“Trust will be your downfall.”
“And here I thought you were.”
She stands, finishes her wine, and sets the goblet on the table. Taking the wine bottle by the neck, she starts walking for the door. “I am.”
Fuming, I remain to temper my anger. Arguing with her will get me nowhere. When I can’t take it any longer, I go inside, but stop abruptly in the doorway. April is leaning her head on Garvey’s shoulder and whispering, “Thank you. I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me.”
When did he get here, and why hadn’t Neely told me he’d arrived? I remain quiet as a mouse, listening. He replies, “I hope not. I hate getting my hands dirty, and this job is the dirtiest.”
With flair, she holds the bottle up and says, “Not much longer.”
Garvey’s gaze hits me and my heart stops in my chest. “Join us. We’re celebrating.”
My feet move without my permission, but like quicksand, every step is a struggle. “What are you celebrating?”
April’s happiness slips away. “Life.”
“Life is always worth celebrating. It’s something I cherish every day. Unfortunately, I’m tired. I’m going to have an early night and leave you to celebrate.”
He says, “Maybe next time.”
“Maybe.” I walk around them as they settle on the couch and head upstairs.
Once I’m inside the room, I lock the door, not feeling safe with the two of them around. I call Alexander and Cruise like I always do. I hate that I no longer get a ringtone or the chance to hear his voice. His voicemail is full, so I get the automated message and hang up.
Climbing into bed, I lie here, thinking. What’s next? Where do I go now? If he truly left me, I can’t stay. I find no truth in those words, in her words. My heart isn’t ready to submit. My soul’s not wanting to believe darkness finally won. So I lie here, holding the sheet to my nose, willing him to come back to me.
My mind drifts back to the conversation with April, and I analyze the details of everything she said. There’s something movies and books taught me. It’s a lesson we learn and never think will apply to our lives. But maybe it does apply, and I need to heed the warning.
When the bad guy confesses there are only two reasons:
They intend to kill you, the secret dying along with you.
They are dying and in those last moments of life want to be forgiven for their sins.
I’m certain it’s not number two, leaving me with only one outcome. And that’s an outcome I intend to change.
32
Alexander
The sun rose.
Food was dumped in front of me.
I was taken on my morning excursion to the toilet.
The routine hasn’t changed except one thing: Cruise never returned.
Bile rises, and as much as I want to stop it from happening, I vomit. The cramps in my stomach pinch, and my chest heaves until my eyes water and my head throbs. I’m not given water to wash it away. The rancid taste remains all day.
It’s been hours since the room went dark and the cycle continues. Vomit. Cramps. Heaves. I curl onto my side, my elbows pressed into my sides. They’re winning. I still haven’t figured out who they are, but they definitely want me dead, and they want me to suffer while dying. Who the fuck are they?
I no longer hide the fact that my body repels the tuna Spam mixture they’ve fed me since I arrived. I get lettuce every three days like clockwork. I wonder if the chef adds it for a garnish or if he thinks the two green leaves will counteract the damage being done.
The shackles around my wrists have been tightened. Three times. I’ve lost weight, but I refuse to give up. Without my brother, my eyes close, and I try to block out the stench of my insides spewed around me and dream of a better time and place . . .