Twisted Palace

by Erin Watt

  Gideon shrugs. “I’m not opposed to sledgehammering that shit out of the wall. We’ll tell Steve you and Reed got into a fight.”

  I gape at him. “That’s a terrible idea and I’m not going to do it.”

  Gideon grabs my arm. “I’m not the only one who you could save.” His voice is low, deadly. “Savannah’s up to her eyeballs in this. Dinah’s got a DA in her pocket. He visited me up at State and showed me two criminal complaints, one for Sav and one for me. They were going to charge us with things I didn’t even know were illegal.”

  Sympathy tugs at me as I stare at his pale face. There’s a bead of sweat along the top of his forehead. “I don’t know,” I say slowly.

  “At least think about it,” he begs. The fingers at my elbow are tight and desperate.

  “I’ll do what I can,” I finally say. I might not be close with Gideon or Savannah, but what Dinah is doing to them isn’t right.

  “Thank you.”

  “But only if you return the favor,” I counter, raising one eyebrow.

  “I’ll do what I can,” he mimics.

  “So Savannah can actually get in trouble for sending you those naked pics?” Easton asks his brother as we walk toward the exit.

  “Dinah and the DA claim she can, but I don’t know,” Gideon admits. “I didn’t want to take the risk, so I broke up with her. I was hoping it would remove her from the equation, but…” He curses softly. “Dinah never lets me forget that Sav is involved in all this. It’s her go-to threat when I’m not feeling cooperative.”

  Wow. Every time I think Dinah O’Halloran can’t get any worse, the woman proves me wrong.

  Hands in his pockets, he lumbers past us toward the parking lot. He pauses with his hand on his car door and looks over his shoulder. “Want to know who’s here?” He jerks his head toward the entrance. “Check the guestbook.”

  Easton and I exchange a wide-eyed why-didn’t-I-think-of-that look.

  “Anyway, I gotta go,” Gideon mutters. “It’s a long drive back to school.”

  “Later, bro,” Easton calls out.

  Gideon gives us a brisk wave before climbing into his car and driving off.

  “I feel so sorry for him,” I admit to Easton.

  His blue eyes flicker with pain. “Yeah. So do I.”

  “Let’s go look at that guestbook.”

  I turn to head back inside, only to run into Callum.

  “You kids heading home?” he asks. Steve is right behind him. Dinah must still be inside where the guestbook is.

  Easton waves his keys. “In a sec. I gotta use the little boys’ room.”

  His father nods. “Good. And I’d prefer it if you stayed in tonight.” He gives Easton a warning look. “No wild parties or dock fights. I mean it.”

  “We’ll order some takeout and chill by the pool,” Easton promises, surprisingly obliging. He tilts his phone toward me, indicating that he’ll take a picture of the guestbook while I stall the dads. “I’ll be right back.”

  The moment that Easton is out of earshot, Steve speaks up. “Actually, I’d like Ella to come back with me.”

  My eyes immediately seek out Callum’s. He must see my panicked expression, because he’s quick to shoot down Steve’s request. “That’s not a good idea. I don’t think Ella should be around Dinah tonight.”

  I say a silent thank you to Callum, but Steve clearly isn’t happy about this. “With all due respect, Callum, Ella is my daughter, not yours. I’ve been more than accommodating about letting her remain with you—temporarily. But I’ll be honest, I’m not comfortable with her living in your house any longer.”

  Callum frowns. “And why’s that?”

  “How many times do we need to go through this?” Steve sounds impatient. “It’s not an ideal environment for her, not when Reed is facing a life sentence. Not when the cops are sniffing around and talking to everyone at Ella’s school. Not when—”

  Callum angrily cuts him off. “Your wife verbally attacked Ella before the service. Do you truly believe that your home—Dinah’s home—is a better environment for Ella right now? Because you’re delusional if you think that.”

  Steve’s blue eyes darken to a metallic cobalt. “Dinah might be unstable, but she’s not charged with murder, now is she, Callum? And Ella is my daughter—”

  “This isn’t about you, Steve,” Callum growls. “Contrary to what you believe, the world does not revolve around you. I’ve been Ella’s guardian for months. I’ve clothed her and fed her and made sure her every need is met. At the moment, I am the closest thing this girl has to a father.”

  He’s right. And for some reason, I get a little choked up at Callum’s impassioned speech. Other than my mom, nobody has ever really fought for me. Nobody has cared about “meeting my every need.”

  Swallowing, I speak up in a small voice. “I want to go back with Easton.”

  Steve narrows his eyes at me. There’s a glint of betrayal there, but it doesn’t trigger any guilt on my part.

  “Please,” I add, locking my gaze with Steve’s. “You said so yourself—Dinah’s super emotional right now. It’ll be better for both of us if I’m not around her, at least for a little while. Besides, the Royals’ house is really close to the bakery.”

  “The bakery?” he says blankly.

  “Her job,” Callum clarifies in a brusque tone.

  “I work mornings at a bakery right near the school,” I explain. “If I stay in the city with you, it’ll add another thirty minutes to my drive, and I already have to wake up at dawn. So, um, yeah. This makes more sense for me.”

  I hold my breath as I await his answer.

  After a long pause, Steve’s head jerks in a nod. “Fine. You can go back to Callum’s. But it’s not permanent, Ella.” A warning note rings in his voice. “I need you to remember that.”

  12

  Ella

  “Anything special you want from the bakery this morning?” I ask Reed as he pulls into the parking lot in front of the French Twist.

  From the driver’s seat, he turns to glower at me. “Are you trying to bribe me with food?”

  I roll my eyes. “No, I’m just trying to be a nice girlfriend. And would you quit sulking already? The funeral was two days ago. You can’t still be mad at me.”

  “I’m not mad at you. I’m disappointed,” he says solemnly.

  My jaw falls open. “Oh my God! Don’t you dare give me the ‘I’m not mad, I’m disappointed’ crap. I get it—you didn’t want me to go. But I did, and it’s over, and you need to move on. Plus, we got that list.”

  Although, the guestbook turned out to be worthless, because Callum told us that his investigators had already looked into the six people I didn’t know at the funeral. They were all accounted for the night of Brooke’s death.

  To say that Easton and I were bummed is an understatement.

  “Which was a total dead end.” Reed runs a hand through his dark hair. “I don’t like how the detectives showed up,” he mumbles. “That means they’re watching all of us.”

  His distressed expression makes my heart ache. “We knew they’d be watching,” I remind him, sliding closer so I can rest my chin on his shoulder. “Your lawyer warned us about that.”

  “I know. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.” His voice is low and tortured. “Honestly? It’s…”

  “It’s what?” I ask when he doesn’t go on.

  Reed’s distress turns into pure torment. “It’s getting harder to convince myself that this whole mess is gonna go away. First there was the DNA evidence, then Judge Delacorte’s shady offer, and the cops interviewing everyone I know. It’s all starting to feel too…real.”

  I bite hard on my lower lip. “It is real. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you since you got arrested.”

  “I know,” he says again. “But I was hoping…”

  This time he doesn’t have to finish, because I know exactly what he was hoping for. That the charges would magically be dropped. That t
he person who killed Brooke would walk into the police station and confess. But none of that is happening, and maybe it’s time Reed fully understood how much trouble he’s actually in.

  He might go to prison.

  Still, I can’t bring myself to toss another dose of reality his way, so I simply cup his chin and twist his head toward mine. Our lips meet in a soft, slow kiss, and then we pull apart, resting our foreheads against each other.

  For once, he doesn’t force a smile and try to tell me that everything will be okay, so I do it for him.

  “We’ll get through this,” I proclaim with confidence I don’t feel.

  He just nods, before gesturing to the bakery’s front window. “You should go. You’ll be late for work.”

  “Don’t overdo it with the weights this morning, okay?” Reed’s doctor cleared him for practice this week, but with some restrictions. Even though his stab wound is healing nicely, the doctor said that he shouldn’t push himself too hard.

  “I won’t,” he promises.

  I give him another quick kiss and hop out of the car, hurrying toward the French Twist.

  My boss is kneading dough when I walk into the kitchen. The gray of the stainless steel countertop is barely visible under the coating of flour. Behind her is a stack of bowls that need to be washed.

  I hang up my jacket and am rolling up my sleeves when she suddenly seems to notice me.

  “Ella, you’re here.” She blows a strand of hair away from her forehead. The bouncy curl falls back immediately, forcing her to peer at me through the spirals.

  “I’m here,” I say cheerfully, even though I can tell by her tone that the you’re here statement wasn’t one of greeting but almost of warning. “I’ll start washing the dishes and then you can tell me what you want me to do next.”

  I hustle over to the sink as if having my hands wet will prevent her from unloading the bad news.

  She straightens and wipes her hands on her apron. “I think we’d better talk.”

  My shoulders go rigid. “Is it because of Reed?” Panic creeps into my voice. “He didn’t do it, Luce. I swear.”

  Lucy sighs and rubs the back of her hand under her chin. The crowd of curls around her face gives her the look of a worried angel. “It’s not about Reed, honey, although I can’t say I’m pleased about that situation, either. Why don’t you grab yourself a cup of coffee and a pastry and we’ll sit down?”

  “Nah, I’m good.” Why delay the inevitable? Caffeine isn’t going to make this conversation less awkward.

  She presses her lips together in slight frustration, but I don’t feel like making it easy for her. Yes, I totally left her in the lurch when I disappeared a few weeks ago, but I came back and haven’t missed another day since. I’ve never been late, even though getting here at five in the morning requires me to wake up before the birds.

  I fold my arms across my chest, lean my butt against the sink, and wait.

  Lucy walks over to the coffeemaker and mutters something to herself about needing at least three cups before she feels human. Then she turns back to me. “I didn’t realize your father was found alive. That must’ve been a huge shock.”

  “Wait, this is about Steve?” I say in surprise.

  She nods, takes another sip of courage, and says, “He came to talk to me last night before closing.”

  “He did?” A nervous feeling flutters in my stomach. Why the hell would Steve come to the bakery?

  “He told me he doesn’t want you to work,” Lucy continues. “He feels that you’re missing out on activities and socialization by coming here so early in the morning.”

  What?

  “He can’t stop you from employing me,” I protest.

  This is beyond ridiculous. What does Steve care if I work? He’s back less than a week and thinks he can dictate what I do? Bull. Shit.

  Lucy clicks her tongue. “I don’t know if he has that right, but I’m not really in a position to fight it. Lawyers are expensive...” Her voice trails off even as her eyes plead for understanding.

  I’m horrified. “He threatened to sue you?”

  “Not in so many words,” she admits.

  “What exactly did he say?” I push, because I can’t let it go. I honestly don’t understand why Steve would object to me having a job. When I mentioned it to him after Brooke’s funeral, he didn’t say a word about not being on board with it.

  “He simply said he didn’t think it was appropriate for you to be working so many hours and taking a job away from someone who really needs the money. He wants you to focus on your studies. He was very nice.” Lucy drains her coffee and sets the mug down. “I wish I could keep you on, Ella, but I can’t.”

  “But I’m not taking a job away from anyone! You said yourself that you didn’t have anyone who would work the morning shift.”

  “I’m sorry, honey.” Her tone has a ring of finality.

  No matter what I say, Lucy’s mind is made up. It was made up before I even got here.

  She bustles around the kitchen and grabs a white to-go box. “Why don’t you pick a few things out for your classmates? Your, um, stepbrothers enjoy the éclairs, right?”

  I almost say no because I’m mad, but then I decide I might as well accept everything Lucy is offering since she’s taking my job away.

  I stuff a dozen pastries into the box and get my coat. Just as I reach the doorway, Lucy says, “You’re a good worker, Ella. If things change, let me know.”

  I nod sullenly, too pissed off to mutter anything more than a thanks and goodbye. The walk to school doesn’t take very long. When I arrive, the grounds of Astor Park are mostly empty, but the parking lot is surprisingly full.

  It’s too early for most of the students to be here. The only ones who come early are the football players. Sure enough, as I approach the front doors of the main building, I hear a few shouts and faint whistles coming from the practice field. I could go over and watch Reed and Easton practice, but that sounds about as exciting as watching paste dry.

  Instead, I slip inside the school, shove the pastries inside my locker, and text Callum.

  Why is Steve dictating where I work?

  There’s no immediate reply. It occurs to me that Callum wasn’t a fan of me working at the bakery, either. Reed got mad, too, when he heard about it, saying that my job implied to everyone that the Royals were mistreating their ward. I explained to both of them that I got the job because I was used to working and wanted money of my own. I don’t know if they understood it, but eventually they accepted it.

  Maybe Steve will come around, too? For some reason, I’m not too hopeful about that.

  Lacking anything better to do, I wander down the hall to find the owners of all the cars outside. In a computer lab, a bunch of students are clustered around one screen. Toward the end of the hall, I hear the clashing of metal against metal. A peek inside the window reveals two students waving swords at each other—advancing, retreating, and slashing at one another. I watch the sword play for a few minutes before moving on. On the other side of the hall, a huge number of students are silently engaged in a different kind of battle. This one is comprised of boards and chess pieces. In almost every hallway, I see huge posters for the Winter Formal, as well as signup sheets for what seems like a million different clubs and organizations.

  Seeing all this makes me realize that I don’t know much about Astor Park. I assumed that it was like any other school with its football in the fall and baseball in the spring, only stocked with wealthier kids. I hadn’t paid much attention to extracurricular events or activities or groups because I didn’t have time for that.

  Now it looks like I have nothing but time.

  My text alert goes off. Callum’s response flashes on the screen.

  He’s your father. Sorry, Ella.

  Seriously? Two days ago Callum was making a grand speech about how he feels like my father. Now he’s backing down? What changed between then and now?

  And what gives Steve the ri
ght to do this? Can parents really prevent their kids from working? My mom didn’t care what I was doing so long as I could assure her I was safe.

  Furiously, I key in a response. He has no right!

  Callum replies with, Fight the important battles.

  It’s good advice, I guess, but it causes an ache to develop in my chest. If Mom were alive, I wouldn’t have to deal with Steve on my own. But…if she were alive, would I even know Reed? Easton? The twins?

  No, I probably wouldn’t. Life is so unfair sometimes.

  I pull up in front of the main gym. The double doors are propped open and hip-hop music blares in the background. I spot Jordan inside, wearing booty shorts and a bralette. Her back is to me as she curves one arm elegantly over her head, and then she spins around on one foot, using her other leg to whip herself into a pirouette.

  I rub one foot against the other. Mom and I used to dance around the house. She told me she wished she could’ve been a professional dancer. In some ways, she was. Like a dancer, she moved her body and got paid for it. The only difference was no one in the audience wanted to see a pirouette or appreciated the graceful arch of a limb.

  Plus, she had to take all her clothes off.

  I don’t have any real classical training—not the kind that I suspect Jordan has. The few classes Mom was able to pay for were more of a tap and jazz mix. Ballet was too expensive because you were required to buy specific shoes and leotards. After seeing my mom’s despondent face when we checked out the prices of gear, I told her I thought ballet was stupid, even though I was dying to try it.

  The other dance classes only required me to show up in socks or bare feet, and I was happy with that, but…I won’t deny that I sometimes stood outside the door of the ballet room, watching the girls dance by in their pastel leotards and toe shoes.

  I can’t help superimposing those images over the one I’m watching now—until Jordan spins to a stop with her eyes shooting fire at me. Too bad I can’t pin the murder on Jordan.

  “What the hell do you want?” she snaps.