Cracked Kingdom (The Royals #5)(65)

I lay a comforting hand on Hart’s back, but she’s too engrossed in reading the details on the screen to notice. I guess the one who’s being comforted is me.

“Shit, three weeks undiagnosed break. That had to hurt like a bitch,” Larry comments.

“I don’t remember.” She rubs her wrist.

I don’t think she even realizes she’s doing it. I bet her body remembers even if her memory is shooting blanks, otherwise she wouldn’t always be reaching for that scar.

“I’m a computer scientist, not a doctor, so what are we looking for here?”

“Cause,” Hart explains. “How’d it happen? My story changes.” She points to the top of the screen. “When I was first admitted, I said I’d hurt it at home, but after the second visit, it says I fell at school.”

“And the diagnosis part says that your injury is consistent with a ‘direct insult from bracing herself against a fall,’” I read.

Hart and I blow out long, disappointed breaths. There’s nothing here that can help us. We can’t take this to the police or a lawyer as proof that Hartley’s father is a danger. Her shoulders slump and she runs an agitated hand through her hair.

“We’ll find something else,” I murmur.

She nods, but I’m not convinced she believes me. I wrap my arm around her shoulders and hug her to my side. She’s stiff as a board. I wish I could just go over to her house and punch her dad’s lights out, but, sadly, this is one of those times when violence isn’t the answer. Which sucks, because physical combat is about the only thing I’m good at these days.

I thought I was so brilliant, bringing her to Larry.

“Anything else you want to see?” Larry asks, popping a potato chip in his mouth, seemingly oblivious to the new tension in the air.

Hart’s too discouraged to answer.

“What else is there?” I ask for her.

“I could create a profile by combining all of Hartley’s social media postings in the past so that you could recreate your memories from there,” he offers.

I guess he does pick up on her distress. “You’re a good man, Larry,” I tell him.

He gives me a tentative smile. “Should I do that?”

Hartley stares blankly at the screen. No doubt she’s thinking of Dylan.

“Hart?” I ask softly.

“I tried that before,” she finally replies. “And found nothing.”

"What'd you search? Your name?"

"Yes."

He grunts. "No one uses their real names on the internet anymore. You have to know your handle."

"I don't know those, though."

"What about before—what IDs did you use before?"

"I didn't have any accounts before thirteen. It was against the rules."

Larry and I turn to stare at her in amazement.

"What?" she exclaims. "That was what all the sites said. You had to verify that you were above the age of thirteen."

"Why didn't you lie?" Larry asks the obvious.

"I...because what if someone found out and then I got in trouble?"

He rolls his eyes and turns his attention back to his computer. I bury my face in her hair to muffle my chuckles.

"What's so funny?" she asks stiffly.

"Everyone lies online," Larry says, his fingers flying across the keyboard.

"Not everyone."

"I can't believe you thought you were a cheater." I tug on a long strand of her hair that hangs down the middle of her back like a stream of ink. "You can't even lie to a machine about your age."

"Whatever." She crosses her arms and glares.

"Can you send me a pic of your face?"

She leans forward to see what he's doing. "What for?"

"I'm going to do an image search."

"You can do that?"

"Sure. It's easy. You've never done that before?"

"No." She looks at me as if I should've thought of it.

I shrug. "I use my phone to text people, look up sports scores, and watch flight vids."

"You people are useless," Larry complains. "Send me a picture."

I fish my phone out of my pocket and zip one over to Larry. He opens it, does a few things and soon we have a page full of girls’ faces. I scan the screen, looking for Hartley. As I inspect the first row of pictures, I think this is a stupid idea, but then we come across one where an unsmiling Hartley wearing a god-awful yellow school blazer and black pants is stuffed between a handful of other students, all holding violins.

“Don’t tell me,” I deadpan, “Your mascot was the bumblebee.”

She makes a disgusted sound before leaning forward. “I can see that some things are best forgotten. I’m hideous.”

“It’s not a good picture,” Larry agrees.

I punch him in the back, but way harder.

“Ouch,” he cries. “I’m just telling the truth. You’re hot now, Hartley.”

“Gee thanks, Larry.”

He rubs his arm and gives us an aggrieved look. “I can’t believe I’m getting abused while I’m helping you.”

The smile drops off Hart’s face at that comment. Abuse is never going to be funny to her.