Cracked Kingdom (The Royals #5)(69)

“It wasn’t enough.” I press my hands to the side of my skull because I’m afraid the pressure inside is going to make my head explode. “It wasn’t enough!”

I repeat it and repeat it, stomping around and kicking rocks, but it doesn’t make me feel better. Easton stands to the side, watching me make a fool of myself. Dogs start barking and a few cars in the neighborhood slow to see what kind of maniac is bringing down the property values. One of the passing drivers honks his horn, bringing me to my senses. Red-faced with embarrassment, I drop to the curb and bury my face in my arms.

“Come on.” East tugs on my arm.

“Don’t wanna,” I mumble like I’m five. I guess my tantrum’s not over.

“You will.” He virtually picks me up and sets me on my feet. He drags me down several blocks until we come to a gas station. “Wait here,” he says.

Because I have nothing better to do, I plant my ass on the sidewalk and stare blindly at the stream of cars and customers gassing up their vehicles, washing down their windshields, stopping in for a quick snack. Everybody’s life is going on with envious normality while mine is in shambles. The worst of it is that I feel like I had the golden ring—the answer—within reach only to find out that it didn’t exist at all.

What ifs and if onlys haunt me. What if I’d responded earlier? If only I didn’t get sent away in the first place. What if I’d kept my mouth shut? If only I could’ve convinced my mom that Dylan wasn’t safe.

“Let’s go,” East says.

I look up to see him holding a six-pack and three-foot long metal club wrapped in yellow rubber, which my brain helpfully informs me is an anti-theft device. I remember that, but not the shit about Mrs. Roquet. I hate myself.

“I’m not interested in drinking,” I respond harshly, irritated that his go-to solution is booze. Getting lit isn’t going to solve any of my problems.

“Neither am I.” He twists the box around so I can see that it’s 7-Up. “There’s a park over here. Let’s go.” He doesn’t wait for me.

I watch him walk away for a beat and then drag myself to my feet. He’s been so good to me. He’s listened to my problems, waited patiently through my tantrums, stuck by me even though I lost all my memories. He’s been a real friend. If I didn’t have East through this whole mess, I’d be lost. So if he wants to have a drink, then I’m going to sit with him while he has that damned drink.

He’s waiting on the black-tarred basketball court for me, the soda at his feet and the club in his hand. He offers it to me when I reach him.

I take it, surprised by its heft. “What am I supposed to do with this?” I ask. “Neither of us have wheels.”

“When I get frustrated, I feel better when I hit something. There are always fights down at the docks. Some guys do it for money, but Reed and I would go down there because slamming your fist into a guy’s face is real satisfying. I’m guessing that’s your style—”

I shudder. “No.”

“—so I bought the soda and the club.” He waves a hand at the six-pack. “Beat the shit out of this. I promise it will make you feel better.”

I’m not convinced, but I take a small swing.

He comes up behind me, wraps his arms around mine and slams the club onto the cans. Fizz sprays up and I jump back, but he holds me steady. “Put some mustard in it, Hart. How do you feel about your dad breaking your wrist?”

Fucking awful. This time I bring it down harder. There’s a satisfying crunching sound as the sides of the cans cave in. I don’t dodge the spray of carbonated liquid. Instead, I put my shoulder into my next swing. That’s for my dad taking bribes. Whack! That one’s for kicking me out of the house. Whack! This one is for Mrs. Roquet dying before I can get her statement. Whack! This is for Felicity and Kyle and my stupid fucking memory loss. I slam that rod into the cans until there is nothing but crushed metal and a pool of white fizzy drink bubbling like a dead fish on the pavement.

“How do you feel?” East asks, pulling the club from my hand.

I wipe a sticky wrist across my forehead. “Surprisingly better.” Throwing tantrums and beating soda cans into submission might be a temporary fix, but until I get Dylan out of that house, I’m not going to be able to live with myself. I beat back a wave of helplessness. Feeling sorry for myself will solve nothing.

I blow my hair out of my face and try to gather my thoughts. My head’s clearer now. I recite the pieces of evidence we do have. “I have a text of a dead woman. My dad would get that thrown out in a second. Anyone can fake a text these days. What we need to do is go to the source.”

“Interrogate your dad?” Easton rubs his hands together. “I’m down for that.”

“No. We break into his office—his home office.”

“Tonight?”

I shrug. “Why not? It’s not that late yet, and we’re already out and about, Scooby-Doo’ing like pros.”

Easton snickers, then goes serious. “You think he keeps anything in his office?”

“It can’t hurt to try.”

“Are you sure you want to do this? It could really hurt your family.”

I settle a hard look at East. “If I don’t, he’ll hurt Dylan. Best thing I can do is find proof he’s taking bribes and then turn him in.”