@dutchessdame172: is schizophrenia genetic? lmao
27 June 2023, 12:19 a.m. UTC—Twitter for iPhone, London, UK
@btswhisktang: @dutchessdame172 it’s not okay to mock someone for having a mental illness. she’s getting treatment and that’s what matters.
27 June 2023, 12:21 a.m. UTC—Twitter for Android, Sydney, Australia
@dutchessdame172: @btswhisktang I wasn’t mocking anyone. it was a question. #JusticeforJasper #shedidit
27 June 2023, 12:53 a.m. UTC—Twitter for iPhone, London, UK
—Twitter exchange between users @dutchessdame172 and @btswhisktang, 27 June 2023
BALANCING TWO PLATES ON MY arm, I carefully open the door to the SUV and slide onto the cool leather seat beside Jenkins. He’s talking to someone on his phone, but as soon as I appear, he cuts the conversation short.
“You didn’t have to hang up,” I say as I offer him a slice of pie.
“I was merely saying goodnight to Louis,” he says as he accepts the plate. “It’s chaos at Windsor right now. Apparently His Majesty didn’t inform the rest of the family that you were both leaving.”
“Doubt any of them really care that I’m gone,” I say darkly, turning my attention to my own slice. I can feel Jenkins’s gaze on me, but he lets me eat a few bites in silence before clearing his throat.
“I owe you an apology,” he says. “Regardless of the circumstances behind my decision, I should have never brought you to England without your consent. What I did was selfish and arrogant, and no matter what my intentions were, I caused both you and His Majesty a great deal of pain. For that I will never forgive myself.”
My fork falls onto my plate with a clatter. “Are you serious?” I say, scowling at him. “You’ve been there for me whenever I needed you for years. You cared about me—and you made sure I knew you cared about me—when it felt like no one else in the world did. You didn’t bring me to England because you wanted to prove you knew better than me or Alexander. You brought me to England because you wanted to protect me—you wanted to protect us both from our own serious errors in judgment. You knew how much we were hurting, and you were willing to risk your job and your entire livelihood to give us a chance at a real relationship.” I shake my head. “I’m not going to pretend it’s been a cakewalk, but you were right. I needed to know this side of my family. I needed to find something to hold on to.”
Jenkins clears his throat, and for one horrifying moment, I think he might actually tear up. Instead, he toys with his fork, inspecting the decoration on the handle with distracted interest. “Your understanding means more to me than I can possibly put into words,” he says quietly. “Please forgive my overfamiliarity, but…through the years, I’ve come to think of you as family, and it’s been a privilege to watch you grow up.”
A warm and fuzzy feeling runs through me, and I have to bite my lip to stop myself from grinning. “You’re not too bad yourself, you know,” I say. “Half the time I got kicked out of boarding school, it was only because I wanted to see you again.”
He chuckles and finally looks at me. “All you ever had to do was ask. But speaking of…” He pulls a manila envelope from his briefcase and hands it to me. “It’s not your birthday yet, but I believe I owe you this.”
It’s heavier than I expect, and I undo the metal clasp. “What is it?”
“Your passports,” he says. “Along with a credit card linked to a bank account His Majesty has arranged for you. There will always be funds for you to access, and you may have whatever you want or need, no strings attached.”
I pull out two dark blue passports—one for the US, one for the UK—and a black credit card with my name on it. I should be elated. This is the freedom I’ve always wanted, and I’ll be able to live my own life and make my own choices for the first time. But all I feel is emptiness and dread.
There’s something else in the envelope, too, and I pull out a plane ticket. It’s blank, but it has my name on it and First Class stamped in the corner.
“As promised,” says Jenkins, “this will get you a seat on any Virgin Atlantic flight in the world.”
I stare at the ticket. A month ago, I would have done damn near anything for the contents of this envelope, and here it all is, mine for the taking. “I can go wherever I want?”
“New Zealand, Malaysia—wherever you would like,” he confirms, and though he’s doing a valiant job of maintaining his composure, I think I hear a catch in his voice.
I’m quiet for a long moment as I run my finger across the bold type. “What about England?”
“England?” he says, unable to hide his surprise.
“Some of the food’s a little iffy,” I say, “but I’ve heard good things.”
“Yes,” says Jenkins slowly. “The food can be questionable. But I suppose I could pull a few strings, if you’re sure that’s what you want.”
“It is,” I say, and I tuck the ticket back in the envelope. “Eat your pie before it gets cold. It’s the best in the city, and I won’t let you waste it.”
A flicker of a smile passes over his face. “Yes, Your Royal Highness,” he says, and he hastily dodges the sharp end of my elbow before digging in.
I EXPECT CONFUSION when I tell my mother I’m returning to Windsor with Alexander, but instead she acts as if this is a given. Maybe to her, it is—or maybe we both know that me staying with her was never really an option.
Before we all say our goodbyes, however, she hurries to her studio and returns with a wrapped canvas roughly the size of a poster. There’s a card attached with my name on it, and she hands me the gift with some hesitancy.
“Wait until your birthday to open it,” she requests. “It’s nothing special, but I thought of you while I worked on it.” She pauses. “I think of you every time I paint.”
I carefully hand the present to Alexander before catching my mom in another hug. “I love you,” I mumble into her shoulder, and she kisses my hair.
“I love you too, Evie. And I’m so glad you two have gotten to know each other. I’ve wanted nothing more for a very long time.”
Alexander clears his throat, and I think I see his eyes shining in the warm lamplight. “I’ll take good care of her,” he promises. “And we’ll come and visit you as often as we can.”
“I know you will,” says my mother, and she reaches for his hand and squeezes it fondly. “I’m already looking forward to it.”
She stands on the lit porch as the SUV drives away, and both Alexander and I crane our necks to keep her in view for as long as possible. Once we turn the corner and she disappears, he and I let out simultaneous sighs, and I notice Jenkins press his lips together to keep from smiling.
“Are you sure about this?” says Alexander from the front seat. “We can always find a hotel for the night if you’d like some time to think it over.”
“I’m sure,” I say. “And I want to schedule a meeting with Doyle and Yara and the rest of your royal goons.”
“To discuss what, exactly?” he says warily.
“The TV interview I’m going to give about what happened the night Jasper died,” I say. He gapes at me like he hasn’t heard right, and I press on. “Everyone already thinks I did it. Dragging Maisie into this mess isn’t going to help, and Jasper’s caused enough pain already. There’s no point in making it worse.”
“Evie…” Alexander grimaces. “You don’t have to take the blame. The lawyers and I will find another way to keep this contained.”
“I know you’ll try,” I say, “but I want to do this. And I’ve thought it through—I just have to admit the clip was edited and reveal someone helped me escape. I won’t say who, but I’ll make it clear I was still the one who pushed Jasper when he came after me again. The footage doesn’t show who really did it, after all, and no one will ever know the truth.” I shrug. “And if the full video is released, most people will see Maisie as a hero who risked her safety to protect a half sister she barely knew. And anyone who tries to claim I’m covering for her will be labeled a conspiracy theorist. Problem solved.”
Alexander spends the rest of the ride to the airport trying to talk me out of it, but at last, after we’ve boarded, he personally makes the call to Doyle to schedule a meeting for tomorrow. Or later today, I guess, given what time it is in London.
Once Jenkins and I are settled in across from each other at our usual table, I pull out my laptop and connect to the plane’s Wi-Fi. I have every intention of going straight to Netflix and falling asleep to an episode of my favorite show, but almost as soon as I sign on, a video call pops up. Hope surges through me, but it isn’t from my mom—instead it’s from a UK number I don’t recognize.
Did the press find my email address? Is this some reporter trying to get a scoop? I almost reject the call, but something—morbid curiosity, maybe, or my propensity to go for the worst possible choice every single time—makes me accept it instead.
“Evan!” Immediately my half sister’s face fills the screen. She has no makeup on, her hair is done up in rollers, and her blue eyes are huge as she leans in toward the camera. “I’ve been trying to call you all day. Where are you?”
Jenkins looks up from his crossword, an eyebrow raised at the volume, and I quickly connect my headphones. “We just left Virginia,” I say. “We, uh—we went to see my mom.”
“How is she?” Ben’s face appears beside Maisie’s, and I catch sight of his silk pajama top.
“She’s good,” I say, bracing myself for the familiar defensiveness that rises within me whenever someone brings my mom up. But she’s healthier than I’ve seen her in a long time, and even though she’ll always have to deal with her illness in one way or another, she doesn’t need me to fight her battles for her. “Maisie, I wanted to talk to you about something—”
I stop suddenly when I catch a glimpse of wavy dark hair behind them, and my stomach flip-flops. Kit.
“About what?” says my half sister. “Is this about dinner? There’s no need to apologize, of course—Benny joined me instead, and we had a rousing debate on who’s likely to make the finals of Wimbledon.”
“No, it’s not about dinner, but I am sorry for leaving you hanging,” I say, and I hesitate. “I’m going to do the interview—the one we talked about earlier. I’m going to tell everyone I pushed Jasper.”
Maisie’s mouth falls open, and there’s stunned silence on the other end of the video call. “But—Evan, you don’t have to do that,” she says, sounding jarringly like Alexander.
“I know,” I say. “I want to, though. We’re family, right?”
Maisie stares at me through the screen, her eyes rapidly filling with tears. “We’re family,” she echoes softly. “Evan…I wasn’t trying to manipulate you earlier, if that’s what you think—”
“It’s not,” I promise. “This is entirely my decision. No one talked me into it.”
“Then allow us to try to talk you out of it,” says Ben from his spot beside her. “There’s no reason for you to go public with what happened to you. You should be discussing this with a therapist, not a BBC reporter.”
“Benny’s right,” says Maisie, and I can hear the dismay in her voice. But as she continues, it’s drowned out by that same fierce protectiveness she showed in my sitting room that morning. “You don’t owe anyone an explanation, especially about something so…traumatic.”
“I don’t,” I agree, “but they’re going to be circling like vultures until they get one. And if the full video ever comes out…”
Silence crackles between us, and Ben’s scowl deepens. “I know you think you’re doing the right thing, but if it ever does come out, your confession won’t protect Maisie.”
“It will,” I say firmly. “I’ve thought it through, and I’m going to tell them—”
There’s a sudden movement in the background, and both Maisie and Ben turn around, giving me a quick view of Kit standing and walking off-screen. “You’re leaving?” says Maisie.
“I’m going to bed,” he says gruffly, and I hear the sound of a door close. Maisie sighs and turns back to the camera.
“You really ought to forgive him for whatever he’s done,” she says. “Surely it wasn’t that egregious, and he’s been in a wretched mood all day.”
“Good,” I mutter. But before I can tell her that he deserves every ounce of that misery, Ben cuts in.
“Evan, perhaps you’d be better off staying with your mother for a while instead of coming back,” he says. “When you decide to return, no doubt the press will have found bigger stories—”
“Alexander’s already scheduled the meeting,” I say. “I appreciate that you both care, but I’ve made my decision. I’m not backing out of this.”
We speak for a few more minutes before Maisie’s giant yawn ends the conversation. After we all say goodnight, I close my laptop and head to the kitchenette in the back of the plane to get something to drink. Jenkins is already sipping a large cup of coffee, and so I carry two mugs of tea to the table where Alexander sits, his laptop open and a video call playing on his screen. I expect to see Doyle’s ruddy face, but instead Nicholas is on the other end, his hair mussed and dark shadows prominent underneath his eyes.
“—swear to you, I have no idea how they found out,” he says, his hands clasped like he’s pleading with my father.
“All of the court records were sealed, and I moved mountains to ensure no one could find her,” says Alexander, so quietly that I can barely hear him over the hum of the jet. “Robert Cunningham didn’t simply stumble across this story. Someone gave it to him. And you’re the only person I ever told about Laura’s illness and arrest.”
A wave of dizziness washes over me, and I go completely still. Vaguely I realize I’m in danger of dropping the tea, but I don’t care. Nicholas says nothing for several agonizingly long seconds, and a strange expression flickers across his features before he buries his face in his hands.
“I don’t know, Alex. I don’t know. Maybe it was her doctor or a disgruntled caregiver.”
My father shakes his head. “They had no idea she was connected to me in any way. Try again.”
Nicholas digs his fingers into his hair and tugs. “I—I suppose it’s possible I accidentally let it slip to Robert while drunk,” he admits. “Some of our poker games get rowdy, and—”
Alexander shuts his laptop with such force that I’m surprised he doesn’t break it. He inhales deeply, as if he’s trying to calm himself, and I don’t know what to do. I can’t stay silent, though, and before I can even begin to sort through my jumbled thoughts, I hear myself speak.
“It was Nicholas?”
My voice is thin and strained, and Alexander twists around. “Evie? What are you—” He notices the drinks I’m holding. “Is one of those for me?”
I hand him a mug. “Nicholas is the one who leaked the story about my mom to the press?” I say, more insistent this time. Alexander sighs.
“He’s the only other person who knew, and the details were far too accurate to have come from anyone who didn’t have the full story. I’m so sorry, my darling,” he says. “I thought…well, I thought I could trust my own brother.”
I nod tightly, and after mumbling an excuse, I head back to my seat across from Jenkins. He looks at me curiously, but I turn away, unable to force a smile.
If Nicholas really was the source of the leak, then I’ve made a massive, massive mistake.