Cracked Kingdom (The Royals #5)(39)

He doesn’t look up from his phone.

“It’s very nourishing. We could do plant-based or bone-based broths. Mrs. Carrington read this article to us about a company out of Los Angeles that sells a month-long program. It’s very reasonable, but if you don’t think we should pay for the food I’m sure I could come up with a few recipes of my own.”

“Can you believe this shit?” Dad answers, shaking his phone at us. “Callum Royal is getting nominated for another philanthropic award. Can’t anyone in Bayview see through his carpetbaggin’ nonsense? He’s just buying everyone off so they can’t see what a corrupt son of a bitch he is.”

“Callum Royal’s family has been here for about five generations,” Mom chirps. “I wouldn’t call him a carpetbagger.”

Dad slams his hand on the table. We all jump. “You’d stick up for Jack the Ripper if he had enough money.”

Mom pales and Dylan looks like she wants to slide under the table.

“That’s not true, John. You know I don’t like the Royals either.” She pushes the potato dish into my hand and gestures with her chin to give Dad another helping. He’s already had two. Maybe she thinks he can be put into a carb coma and he’ll stop being mad at her.

In the short time I’ve been home from the hospital, I’ve learned we all give my dad a wide berth. He has a temper and a sharp tongue, which, I suppose, serves him well in the courtroom. His phone rings and he takes the call right there at the dinner table.

No one is surprised, so I act like it’s normal, too, even though I think this is weird. Why not get up and go to his office? Why not wait until we’re done eating?

“How was school today?” Mom asks to distract me.

It works. I swing my attention away from my father.

“It was good,” I lie. Or maybe it’s not a lie but rather hope. I’m speaking the future I want into existence.

Across from me, Dylan snorts. She hasn’t been in a good mood since I returned from the hospital.

I set my spoon down and gather up my patience. "What is it now?" I ask. "Am I eating wrong again?"

Last night, my baby sister told me the way I chewed my food made her want to hurl. She made gagging sounds at the table until Dad yelled at her to go to her room.

"Everything about you is wrong. You shouldn't be here."

"I know. You've told me that a million times since I got back from the hospital." I emphasize the last word, but the little shit doesn't care. In fact, if she could get away with it, I think she'd put me back there.

"You're gross."

"Thank you for your unasked opinion."

"I wish you'd stayed in New York."

"I heard you the first dozen times you said it.”

"You're gross."

"You already said that, too.”

"But you're still sitting here, exposing me to your grossness." Dylan turns to Mom. "Why is she back? I thought Dad said he never wanted to see her again."

"Hush," Mom chastises and flicks a guilty look in my direction.

Dad never wanted to see me again? I twist to stare at him, but he’s still occupied with his phone call. “There’s going to be a lot of press involved,” he’s saying. He sounds excited about this.

"You said she was going to ruin everything and that she had to be punished for that," my sister presses.

"You need to hush up, Dylan. Now finish your dinner." Mom's lips thin. “And you, Hartley, go put your uniform in the dryer so it smells nice for tomorrow.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I rise ungracefully and knock the table with my hips, sending Dylan’s nearly full milk glass spilling over.

“God, you are such a clumsy bitch,” she snarls.

“That’s enough!” bellows Dad.

The three of us jump in surprise. I hadn’t realized he’d hung up the phone. By Dylan’s shocked face, she didn’t either or she never would’ve cursed.

“That’s enough,” he repeats with a sneer. “I'm tired of your garbage mouth. Are you taking your medication?" His hand is curled into a fist.

I shrink back. Across from me, a shaft of fear skips across Dylan's face.

"Y-y-yes," she stutters, but the lie is so obvious that I wince in sympathy.

"Why isn't she taking her goddamned medicine?" Dad bellows at Mom.

She wrings the napkin between her fingers. "I give them to her every morning."

"If you did, she wouldn't be acting like a little bitch, would she?" He abruptly pushes away from the table, sending everything tottering.

Dylan's eyes well up. "I'll take it," she mumbles. "I missed it just today."

Dad's not listening. He's in the kitchen, jerking open a drawer and pulling out a pill bottle. With the amber container clutched in his hand, he marches back and slams it down on the table. "Take it," he orders.

My sister stares at the medicine as if it's poison. Slowly, her arm raises from her lap, but she doesn't move fast enough for Dad.

"I'm tired of your bullshit." He sweeps the bottle out of her reach, wrenches it open and pours what seems like half the pills into his palm. "You're a moody little shit who cusses like the only thing she has in her mouth is trash. I'm not going to stand for this. Do you hear me?" He squeezes her mouth in his hands until it opens.