Cracked Kingdom (The Royals #5)(68)

I scratch my scar. “Maybe she changed her mind?”

He folds his fingers over mine. “Let’s go to her place. We have nothing to lose by going there, showing her the message and asking for that statement.”

“You’re right.” I still feel awful, like I dropped the ball. Dylan has every right to be angry with me.

Outside, Easton hails a car that takes us five miles over to the north side of Bayview—a true suburbia where the only distinguishing features of the homes are their varying shades of blue and beige. The address Larry found for us is at the end of the cul-de-sac. The house is lit up, so someone must be home.

I suck in a deep breath, screw up my courage, and let myself out of the car. East pays the driver and meets me on the sidewalk.

“Do you want me to come with you or hang back?”

I give the beautiful boy a healthy once-over. “Definitely come with. One smile from you might make her cave.” Plus, I need the moral support.

He grins that devastating half smile, takes my hand and gestures for me to lead the way.

There’s a rattan welcome mat on the floor on the stoop and a wreath of ivy and berries hanging over the front door. A peek inside the sidelight reveals that Mrs. Roquet has her Christmas decorations well under way and it’s not even Thanksgiving.

“I should’ve brought flowers or chocolates,” I say, rubbing my damp palms against my jeans. “Like what is the appropriate, swear out an affidavit admitting you bribed an official, gift?”

“Chocolate, definitely. I’ll have a box sent to her when we’re done.”

“Is that considered a bribe? Maybe we better not.”

He squeezes my hand. “Just knock, Hart.”

A woman comes to the door, holding it open only a couple of inches. “How can I help you?”

She looks us over suspiciously, and I don’t blame her. It’s evening time, too late for door-to-door sales people, or even Jehovah’s Witnesses.

I awkwardly stick my hand out for a handshake. “Hartley Wright, ma’am. You said I should come over to talk. I was in an accident so I wasn’t able to come before now.” I don’t mention that the accident was only two weeks ago. That doesn’t seem like helpful information at this point.

Mrs. Roquet frowns. “Hartley Wright? I’m sorry, but can you tell me what it is that we were going to talk about?” She seems genuinely baffled.

“Your son, Drew?”

“Drew? Oh, goodness, do you mean Drew Roquet?” She swings the door open wider. “I remember you now. You came here a couple months ago asking about him.”

“I did?”

“She had an accident and hit her head,” East pipes up. “She doesn’t remember much about her past.”

The lady, who I guess must not be Drew’s mom, gasps. “Oh my Lord. Come in. Come in.” She ushers us inside the house and sits us in the living room. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“No, ma’am,” we both say.

“Well, I’m Helen Berger and I bought this house in June from Sarah Roquet.”

“Oh.” I’m the very picture of a deflated balloon at this moment. “Where is she now?”

“She passed, honey. A couple months after her son went on to his reward, she walked out in the middle of the freeway and got hit by a truck. Terrible thing. Bless her heart. She had lost her son a few months earlier and I guess it was just too much for her.” Helen shakes her head sadly. “I shared this with you when you came here in August. You wore that same shell-shocked look. I guess you needed something from Sarah. I’m so sorry you couldn’t get it.”

“Yeah, me, too,” I reply numbly. Ice seeps into my bloodstream. I was too late—both before my memory loss and now. Helplessness weighs me down like an anvil. I drop my chin to my chest because the disappointment makes it too hard to hold my head up.

Easton and Ms. Berger are exchanging pleasantries.

I’m so sorry I couldn’t be of more help.

It’s nothing at all. Thank you for your time.

Of course. Your friend looks distressed. Can I get you something before you leave?

Nah, we’re good. I’ll take care of her.

You’re a good friend.

Thank you.

East helps me to my feet. “Thank you again, Ms. Berger.”

“It’s no problem.”

With a nudge in my side from East, I manage to scrape together enough brain matter to remember my manners. “Thank you, Ms. Berger.”

East hauls me out the door.

“Should I call for a ride or wait?”

I don’t answer. I’m too angry—at myself, at my dad, at Mrs. Roquet for dying. I shake off Easton’s hand and stomp down the sidewalk.

“I may not have cheated or blackmailed anyone, but I was a coward,” I huff out. “I sat on my hands and did nothing. And now I’m out of options. I have three days before Dylan comes back.”

“You’re not out of options,” he soothes.

“The hell I’m not.” I swipe my hand across my face, mad that I have tears falling. What good are they going to do me? “Why’d I wait for so long?”

“You didn’t wait. You were getting your ducks in order. You knew that at the age of seventeen, you weren’t going to be getting your sister away from your family. And you were trying to get into that house to protect her. You got into Astor Park to make your mom happy and you kept your mouth shut about your dad’s shenanigans. You were doing what you could.”