Twisted Palace
Page 2
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.
I don’t answer him. He frowns as he watches me drag a navy-blue suitcase across the cream-colored carpet.
“Ella! Damn it, will you just talk to me?”
The frown turns into wide-eyed gawking when I start throwing stuff into the suitcase. Some T-shirts, Reed’s favorite green hoodie, jeans, a couple of wife-beaters. What else would he need… Um, boxers, socks, a belt—
“Why are you packing Reed’s clothes?” Easton is practically shouting at me now, and his sharp tone snaps me out of my panic.
The worn gray T-shirt in my hands falls to the carpet. My heartbeat accelerates as the gravity of the situation hits me again.
“Reed was arrested for killing Brooke,” I blurt out. “Your dad’s at the police station with him.”
Easton’s jaw drops. “What the hell?” he exclaims. And then, “The cops came when we were at dinner?”
“No, after we got back from D.C.”
Everyone minus Reed had gone to D.C. for dinner earlier. That’s how the Royals roll. They’re so loaded that Callum has multiple private planes at his disposal. It probably helps that he owns a company that designs airplanes, but it’s still ridiculously surreal. The fact that we took a plane from North Carolina to D.C. tonight—to go for dinner—is crazy-rich. Reed stayed behind because his side hurt.
He’d been stabbed at the docks the other night and claimed that his pain meds made him too woozy to go with us.
But he hadn’t been too woozy to go see Brooke…
God. What had he done tonight?
“It happened about ten minutes ago,” I add weakly. “Didn’t you hear your dad screaming at the detective?”
“I didn’t hear a goddamn thing. I…ah…” Shame flickers in his blue eyes. “I kinda pounded a mickey of vodka when I was at Wade’s tonight. Came home and crashed right afterward.”
I don’t even have the energy to lecture him about his drinking. Easton’s addiction issues are serious, but Reed’s murder issues are a million times more urgent at the moment.
I curl my fingers into a fist. If Reed were here right now, I’d punch him—both for lying to me and for getting hauled away by the police.
Easton finally breaks the stunned silence. “Do you think he did it?”
“No.” But as confident as I sound, inwardly I’m shaken up.
When I got back from dinner, I saw that Reed’s stitches were pulled and he had blood on his stomach. I keep those incriminating tidbits from Easton, though. I trust him, but he’s hardly ever sober. I need to protect Reed first and foremost, and who knows what might come out of Easton’s mouth when he’s drunk or high.
Swallowing hard, I refocus on that task—protecting Reed. I hurriedly toss a few more items of clothing into the suitcase and zip it up.
“You haven’t told me why you’re packing,” Easton says in frustration.
“In case we need to run.”
“Us?”
“Me and Reed.” I bolt to my feet and race over to Reed’s dresser to raid his sock drawer. “I want to be prepared just in case, okay?”
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.
I don’t answer him. He frowns as he watches me drag a navy-blue suitcase across the cream-colored carpet.
“Ella! Damn it, will you just talk to me?”
The frown turns into wide-eyed gawking when I start throwing stuff into the suitcase. Some T-shirts, Reed’s favorite green hoodie, jeans, a couple of wife-beaters. What else would he need… Um, boxers, socks, a belt—
“Why are you packing Reed’s clothes?” Easton is practically shouting at me now, and his sharp tone snaps me out of my panic.
The worn gray T-shirt in my hands falls to the carpet. My heartbeat accelerates as the gravity of the situation hits me again.
“Reed was arrested for killing Brooke,” I blurt out. “Your dad’s at the police station with him.”
Easton’s jaw drops. “What the hell?” he exclaims. And then, “The cops came when we were at dinner?”
“No, after we got back from D.C.”
Everyone minus Reed had gone to D.C. for dinner earlier. That’s how the Royals roll. They’re so loaded that Callum has multiple private planes at his disposal. It probably helps that he owns a company that designs airplanes, but it’s still ridiculously surreal. The fact that we took a plane from North Carolina to D.C. tonight—to go for dinner—is crazy-rich. Reed stayed behind because his side hurt.
He’d been stabbed at the docks the other night and claimed that his pain meds made him too woozy to go with us.
But he hadn’t been too woozy to go see Brooke…
God. What had he done tonight?
“It happened about ten minutes ago,” I add weakly. “Didn’t you hear your dad screaming at the detective?”
“I didn’t hear a goddamn thing. I…ah…” Shame flickers in his blue eyes. “I kinda pounded a mickey of vodka when I was at Wade’s tonight. Came home and crashed right afterward.”
I don’t even have the energy to lecture him about his drinking. Easton’s addiction issues are serious, but Reed’s murder issues are a million times more urgent at the moment.
I curl my fingers into a fist. If Reed were here right now, I’d punch him—both for lying to me and for getting hauled away by the police.
Easton finally breaks the stunned silence. “Do you think he did it?”
“No.” But as confident as I sound, inwardly I’m shaken up.
When I got back from dinner, I saw that Reed’s stitches were pulled and he had blood on his stomach. I keep those incriminating tidbits from Easton, though. I trust him, but he’s hardly ever sober. I need to protect Reed first and foremost, and who knows what might come out of Easton’s mouth when he’s drunk or high.
Swallowing hard, I refocus on that task—protecting Reed. I hurriedly toss a few more items of clothing into the suitcase and zip it up.
“You haven’t told me why you’re packing,” Easton says in frustration.
“In case we need to run.”
“Us?”
“Me and Reed.” I bolt to my feet and race over to Reed’s dresser to raid his sock drawer. “I want to be prepared just in case, okay?”
