by E V Darcy
He glanced down to her bandaged feet, before he looked back up, to the right side of her face that was bright red, as if she’d been out in the sun too long.
‘By the time I reached the top of the steps, the car had rolled down the road. I tried to run to him’—her breath sped up as she spoke—‘I could see him in the back, Roman, I saw him still sitting there—’
She closed her eyes again and rubbed her hand over her face, causing more streaks in the soot that decorated it. He watched the now grey bandage becoming blacker. But he couldn’t comprehend her words; this wasn’t real, none of this was real.
‘They say he wasn’t alive when I got there, that the blast, the fire, it would have been instantaneous, but I swear I saw him trying to get out and I ran… I ran and I ran, but I got tackled when—’
‘Lady Snape.’ A deep, commanding voice sounded from down the corridor perpendicular to the one in which they stood. Marcus Walker, Head of the Royal Avalonian Guard, stepped into view pushing a wheelchair. ‘You really need to come with me now.’
Roman did a double take between the two as his brain tried to play catch up. There was too much to process. She had to be lying, but then why the hell was a member of the Royal Guard here? Hattie hated anything to do with her royal connections, and unless it was a family wide event, she stayed clear of her relatives at all costs. Meaning she and her sisters were never subjected to measures such as the Guard unless…
Unless something happens to threaten our lives, she’d once said.
‘What the fuck is going on?’ he finally snapped, stepping away from them both.
‘Mr Tyrrell?’ another voice interrupted the scene from his other side. Roman slowly pulled his gaze away from Hattie and turned to see another man nearby. The new interloper wore a white coat and beneath it, the same green clothes as Hattie. An ID badge clipped to the pocket of his lab coat said Dr Hastings. Roman’s eyes moved from the man’s face to the badge and back again.
‘Yes,’ Roman finally answered, his voice a mere whisper.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Dr Hastings began. ‘But you shouldn’t have been called here.’
‘But you said—’ Hattie began before cutting herself off at the doctor’s hard gaze.
Roman wanted to scream in your face at her, slap the doctor on the back and ask where his brother was hiding. Clearly, not everyone could be bought by Jensen’s charming ways if this doctor was calling them out. Although how he’d managed to get the Head of the Royal Guard in on it, he didn’t know. He had to give his brother kudos for that.
‘I knew this was a joke,’ Roman said, turning back to Hattie. ‘I knew this was one of Jensen’s twisted games again. Well, this time he’s gone too far. And for you to—’
‘Mr Tyrrell, I’m sorry, but you misunderstand me,’ Dr Hastings interrupted him. The man looked towards Hattie and Marcus. ‘Did the police not inform him?’
Hattie shook her head.
‘It would appear not,’ Marcus added.
‘I didn’t see the police,’ Roman finally clarified. ‘I got a call from the hospital saying my brother was here.’
‘I’m terribly sorry, that’s not how it should have happened.’ Dr Hastings shook his head.
‘Roman,’ Hattie’s voice, once more softened, called his attention. ‘We’re telling you the truth,’ she said calmly, her good hand gently touching his arm again. ‘Jensen’s dead, they brought him here because, well, that’s what they do.’
‘But you shouldn’t have been called down here,’ Dr Hastings added. ‘Usually, people only come here to identify the body, but for Mr Tyrrell—’ The doctor frowned looking at Roman. ‘For Mr Jensen Tyrrell, we simply need a DNA sample from yourself for comparison. You should have been directed to pathology.’
‘What? Why do you need DNA? I’ll identify him.’
‘Roman, you don’t know what you’re saying,’ Hattie said, her voice once again pleading. He glared down at where her fingers clenched at his forearm and she slowly took her hand away.
‘Your brother’s body is too badly burnt to be recognisable,’ the doctor said, his voice softening. ‘And from what I understand he had perfect teeth—not a single filling.’ Roman nodded, both he and Jensen had never required anything beyond their annual scale and polish to perfect their smiles.
‘With the two of you being twins, it will be easy to confirm his identify through blood work.’
‘I told you, it’s him,’ Hattie snapped at the doctor. The vitriol in her voice stole Roman’s attention from Hastings. He’d never heard such contempt from her before, even when she’d been on the phone to her father at Guildford, and they’d had roaring arguments. ‘I saw him—’
‘I’m sorry, Lady Snape, but the police told me you had turned away from the car, you were heading back inside the house. There was time between the explosion and you getting to the site where you saw a figure. It doesn’t count as a positive ID.’
‘Why you—’ She hobbled forward, jarring Marcus into action, pushing the wheelchair away, but it was Roman that stopped her in her tracks as he stepped between her and her target.
‘He’s really dead?’ The moment he spoke, Hattie immediately shut up, her face softening as she slowly nodded.
‘He’s not hiding in there?’ He motioned to the room behind the doctor with his head. The door had been left opened and he’d seen the metal slabs bodies were laid upon when they had to be examined. ‘He’s not on one of those tables, a sheet over him, ready to scare the shit out of me when I pull it off?’
Hattie’s eyes glistened once more, but this time the tears weren’t for his brother.
‘Oh, Roman,’ she whispered, shaking her head. ‘I know what he’s—’ She swallowed. ‘I know what Jensen was like, I know the shit he pulled, but even he would never have done that to you. He might not have had many, but he did have lines he’d never cross.’
‘My brother’s dead?’ he whispered again. He turned to look at the doctor who mirrored Hattie’s nod. He couldn’t, wouldn’t believe it. Not with the way Jensen played tricks.
‘I need to see him.’
‘Roman, please, no—’
‘Mr Tyrrell, I don’t think—’
‘Let him.’ It was Captain Walker’s voice, the deep, smooth timbre of the stoic Guardsman that quietened the protests of the others.
‘Very well,’ Dr Hastings said, clearing his throat as he stepped aside, allowing Roman to enter the large white room.
A feeling of dread ate away in his stomach as he stepped further and further into the room, closer to those metal slabs. They were angled slightly, with channels running around the raised platform, and Roman knew they were designed that way to make clearing up the blood, after the bodies were cut into and pulled apart, easier—he’d helped to design them after all.
Had Jensen already—
He shook his head.
This is just a room, he tried to tell himself. You’ve been in plenty of these before, helping to fit them out. There’s nothing different about being in here than being in the hallway. Jensen’s no more in here than he was outside. This is all a lie, all a big prank… He turned and saw only one of the tables in use. His steps grew smaller and he struggled to keep his breath, that was desperate to hitch and speed up, under control.
When I lift that blanket, the son of a bitch is going to jump up at me and shout boo! Before pissing himself laughing.
He imagined Hattie would burst into the room, unrolling the bandages from her arm, kicking off the fake wrappings from her feet, laughing and pointing at him, as Jensen sat up and swung his legs off the table. She’d tell him they were finally even and he’d weep with relief that it truly was a big, fat joke. No matter how twisted.
He stopped. His chest felt heavy, tight. The breath that had threatened to send his body into a spiral of panic had disappeared completely as he held it in anticipation for what the doctor was about to reveal. Hastings stepped around the table to stand opposite him, waiting for permission
, for when Roman was ready to have the truth finally revealed one way or the other.
It’s just a joke, he reminded himself as he glanced over his shoulder towards the open door where Hattie leaned against the frame, still using her left side to support her weight. Her brown eyes filled with sympathy and her lower lip wobbled. She shook her head at him slightly, but she didn’t move. She wasn’t going to leave him, wasn’t going to allow him to go through this alone. She was there for him. His Henrietta still sticking to his side through thick and thin.
This isn’t a joke.
The thought hit him like a train as he turned away and glanced down at the crisp, white sheet.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before nodding at the doctor, cringing at the faint rustle of fabric as the other man lifted the covering and folded it back. Hattie’s gasp, a whimper of horror, made his stomach turn and he swallowed hard, trying to retain control of his breathing.
He was Roman Tyrrell; rich, powerful, he could do anything, be anything, face anything…
He opened his eyes and looked down.
Chapter Three
‘Shares in Seymour Medical plummeted on Thursday afternoon, after the death of Roman Tyrrell, the company’s Vice-President, were inaccurately reported.
‘The car, registered to Avalone’s largest medical corporation, was caught in the gas explosion that demolished a street in the town of Haleton. The explosion caused a giant sinkhole to appear a few hours later, taking a pretty row of holiday homes with it.
‘While initial reports stated the death of Roman Tyrrell, causing a panic in Avalonian investors, it was later confirmed that the deceased was, in fact, Jensen Tyrrell, Roman’s identical twin brother who had no connection to the company. The news saw the return of share prices back to near their usual levels when the market reopened this morning, reflecting the confidence the market has in the young Vice-President of Seymour Medical.
‘The death of his driver, David Evans, was the only other reported fatality. There were no other reported injuries. Police are still investigating but suspect no foul play.’
‘Bullshit!’ Hattie shouted as she threw the remote at the television. The screen cracked and paper-thin lines spread out from the corner like a spider’s web. If the spider was on some sort of acid trip. Hattie glared at the reporter who, although now muted, appeared to have four eyes as she continued to silently ramble on about crap she knew nothing about.
Hattie ground the palms of her hands into her tired eyes, trying to banish the grainy feeling from lack of sleep and random bouts of crying she was suddenly prone to. Although, it didn’t help that she was virtually a prisoner, held captive by those purported to be taking care of her. If she could just get out of this place, back to her house and see what damage had been done, call her insurer and carry on with life she might start to feel a bit like herself again, rather than a woman on edge, ready to go for the throat of the next peppy nurse that came waltzing in.
The door swung open at that moment and Hattie let out a frustrated scream before she swung the wheelchair, they still insisted she use, around to face the interloper.
‘I guess I’m not catching you at the best of times,’ the warm, rich voice of her favourite cousin, Prince Alistair of Avalone, said tentatively. The young, blond prince stood in the door’s frame, peering over a huge bouquet of flowers in his hands. The whites and blues of the beautiful arrangement reminded her of the ocean surf and made her long for home all the more.
‘Why are you here?’ she muttered, turning back to the window to gaze out over the city far below. At twenty-one stories high, she couldn’t even people watch from the room they’d confined her to and a room swap was out of the question. Just as it was in every major hospital in every city in Avalone, the top floor was reserved specifically for the Royal family, and as minor as Hattie was, she was still a royal. She was stuck here.
No matter how much she complained.
The swish of the door over the thick carpet caught her ear but she refused to turn back to her cousin. She followed the sound of his footsteps across the room and heard the crinkle of the plastic wrapping around the flowers as he placed them on the table.
His eyes bore into her back as she stubbornly kept her gaze fixed on the scrap of ocean she could see framed between two towers that housed some of the city’s residents. A strip of deep blue against an otherwise grey landscape.
Okay, that wasn’t fair; the city of Wessex’s landscape was bright and vibrant, heavily influenced by the life its neighbour, the ocean, held. But right now, all colours to Hattie were paled and dulled by the death of her friend and the lack of information about what was going on.
Alistair sighed and she imagined him shaking his head before he headed back to the door.
Good. She didn’t want him or anyone else coming by and—
The snick of the lock slipping in place finally made her turn her head. Alistair’s usually warm, blue eyes, filled with friendliness and laughter, were firm and unmoving. He’d come for her attention and he was going to get it. She rolled her eyes at him and returned to the view. It was cute of him to try his future role out on her, but she wasn’t impressed; he was still the boy who’d wet himself as they’d watched a horror film far too old for them when they were just eight.
‘Cousin,’ he began, his voice low with warning that he wasn’t going to be ignored, unlike every single one of the Guards they’d sent before him. Oh yes, she knew why he was really here, and she wasn’t going to give in so easily.
‘Don’t cousin me,’ she snapped, turning the wheel of the chair so it would face him. He might be her favourite relative—well, pretty much the only one she could stomach for more than fifteen minutes, and even that was pushing it for Artie—but he was still second in line to succeed the Crown, which meant he was at least partially behind her incarceration for the last four days.
‘I want to go home.’ She stated the fact with a sniff. ‘There’s no point in my being trapped up here, I can pretty much walk now, the cuts were superficial, if a little sore at first. And my arm and side don’t require any surgeries, they’re just second-degree burns, I simply need to take care of the dressings and keep the areas clean to minimise the chance of scaring.’
Alistair’s gaze dropped to her bandaged arm that rested on the armrest of the chair. She fought the urge to move it, to pull down the sleeve of the hospital gown and hide it from sight.
‘Hattie,’ he said her name with a sigh as he took a seat at the table, pushing the flowers to one side. ‘You know why I’m here, so just make it easy and talk to me. Please.’
She lifted her chin and turned her face away from him ever so slightly, punctuating the action with another imperious little sniff. She said the same thing she’d told Marcus and the half dozen other officers who’d been sent in to take her statement, ‘I’m not speaking to anyone until I’m out of here.’
‘Oh, come on, Hattie, you know this is important.’
‘No, no I don’t,’ she said firmly, glaring at him. ‘I already told the police and Marcus everything that happened that day, so I don’t see why I have to do it another fifteen million times! When I’m home, then I’ll repeat myself until I’m blue in the face! But not a moment before!’
Hattie spun the wheel of the chair to make her turn away, but performed the manoeuvre far too quickly, causing her to swing almost all the way around again. She swore under her breath as she had to use her injured arm to correct herself, wincing as the already taunt skin pulled tighter by the action.
‘Hattie, you can’t go home. The reports on the news say…’ He paused, probably glancing at the broken screen of the now silent TV and trying to work out how to diplomatically tell her what he needed to without incurring the temper she was famous for. Six nurses had already requested transfers off the private and secure floor that had only one occupant.
‘Have you seen the news?’ When she didn’t reply, he sighed. ‘I’ll assume you have. What they say is acc
urate, Hattie. At least in regards to the state of the houses on you street.’
She looked over her shoulder at him in disbelief. ‘Really? There’s a giant sink-hole that sucked them all in?’
‘Well… There is now,’ he ventured.
Hattie blinked. There was no way she’d heard him correctly. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Well, drones are getting so common nowadays that we thought it best—’
‘Are you telling me,’ she began, forgetting about the pain in her arm as she used both hands to control the wheelchair, turning herself around and wheeling over to her cousin. ‘That you made a sink-hole on my street?’
‘Well—’
‘Are you kidding me!’ she screeched.
‘Well, it wasn’t like it took much… Just a carefully controlled explosion in the sewer underneath the street. The blast of the Tyrrell car was so powerful, it pretty much ripped off the front of the three houses down from yours, and partially destroyed your house and the one up. They weren’t salvageable.’
Hattie stared up at her cousin, her mouth gaping as she tried to process what the Avalonian heir was telling her.
‘You blew up a street, to cover up—’ She stopped abruptly, her brows instantly furrowing as she tried to make the connection and failing. While she wasn’t as intricately linked to the Crown as Alistair was, she and her sisters still received security updates, an email every morning came through to their secure phones or laptops, and if it were a dire emergency, a phone call was received with a simple pre-recorded message that told them what protocol to immediately follow.
But the emails had been clear for weeks. In fact, save for a minor incident at a polo event when an animal rights protester charged her cousin Spencer, there hadn’t been anything she could recall since Victoria and Cormac’s horrific night at Christmas. This couldn’t have happened out of the blue, and to have organised not only the explosive under the street but to also pay off all the emergency service staff there that morning—
