Broken Prince: A New Adult Romance Novel

by Rose, Aubrey

  "It was a gruesome murder," Mrs. Deveny said. She swirled the glass in her hand, saying the words without any hint of emotion, as flatly as if she had been talking about the heat outside. I hated her then, hated her drunkenness, hated having to ask her about my mother. I wanted to turn and run back out the way I had come. I shifted in my stool and swallowed hard.

  "What can you tell me about it?" I asked, as calmly as I could.

  "I didn't work the case, but I was working there when it happened. It was part of a series of murders. That's why the information was never released to the press. They wanted to make sure that they stayed ahead of your mother's killer. They didn't want the evidence leaked."

  "Why not?"

  "The murderer—they thought he would kill again, and they didn't want him to know that they had found your mother's body until after they could catch him. And it worked, at least partially."

  "They found him? The murderer?" My face turned hot and my heart pounded in my ears. They had caught him. The killer. I would know who did it.

  "No," Mrs. Deveny said. "They didn't catch him. But he didn't kill again. Your mother was his last victim."

  "Oh." My face fell.

  "There's a few boxes of files relating to the case at the police station," Mrs. Deveny said. "I wouldn't think you would want to see them, though."

  "I would like to," I said. "I...I want to know what happened."

  "Your choice," Mrs. Deveny said. "You're next of kin and an adult. You have every right to see the files. Let me know when you want to go to the station and I'll have the filing assistant pull them for you."

  "Can I go today?"

  "Today?" Mrs. Deveny raised her eyebrows. "I don't think I can pull them by today. But I'll call in and have them ready for you by noon on Monday."

  "Thank you," I said. "That would be great. Thank you."

  Mrs. Deveny took another sip of wine, the red liquid disappearing from the glass between her lips. I realized she was waiting for me to leave. I stood up uncertainly from my seat. She stood as well, kissed me on both cheeks in goodbye. Her lips were cold and smelled of alcohol.

  "Goodbye," Mrs. Deveny said. "And good luck. I hope you find whatever it is you're looking for." She reached over the kitchen counter for the bottle of wine, and poured herself another glass, almost to the rim.

  "Mrs. Deveny?" A thought had just come into my mind.

  "Yes?" Her nostrils flared impatiently.

  "How do they know he never killed again?"

  "What do you mean?" A frown passed over her face and she shook it off.

  "You said that the murderer didn't kill again. How do they know he wasn't responsible for any other deaths? I mean, surely there have been other unsolved murders since then."

  Mrs. Deveny turned in her stool to look directly at me, and the blankness in her eyes chilled my nerves.

  "When you see the files, you'll understand," she said. "Now if you'll excuse me, I can't answer any more of your questions right now. I'm quite busy."

  "Yes, of course," I said, although I was sure that her business involved only a glass of wine. "Thank you again. Goodbye."

  She said nothing as I left, just watched me leave. I pulled my shoes back on and pressed the elevator button. The doors closed behind me on the elegant living room, and as they closed I heard the television come back on.

  At the bottom of the stairs I thanked the doorman and walked out into the street.

  "What are you here for?"

  I turned around and saw Csilla sitting just behind me, on the edge of the stoop next to the building I had just come out of. A cigarette dangled from her limp fingers and her legs swung against the stoop. She folded the newspaper she was holding and tossed it aside.

  "Hi," I said nervously. "I was just here to see your mom."

  "About what?"

  "About my mother's death," I said, my courage coming back to me. If she wanted to be nosy, I wouldn't stop her. Mark had already told her everything, probably. "How it happened. Your mom was working at the police station when she was murdered. I was just asking her if she knew anything."

  "Was she drunk yet?" Csilla asked.

  "What?"

  Csilla took a drag off of her cigarette and blew it up over my head.

  "My mom," she said. "Was she drunk yet when you went up there?"

  "It's only ten in the morning," I said, avoiding the question.

  "Yeah? So?"

  "She seemed fine," I lied.

  "She's a bitch," Csilla said, looking away.

  I bit my lip to keep from making the snide remark running through my head: Must run in the family, then.

  "Your dad's the Academy director, right?" I asked politely.

  "Yeah. He's worse than her," Csilla said, looking back at me. I held her gaze. If there was someone who knew something about bad fathers, it was me.

  "I'm sorry," I said. "My dad's an asshole, too."

  "What did he do?" she asked.

  "He left me when my mom died," I said.

  "So you were an orphan? Did you live in an orphanage?" Csilla asked. She took another long drag off of her cigarette.

  "I stayed with my grandmother," I said.

  Csilla shook her head.

  "My dad's almost the same. He's never at home. You can't trust guys, anyway. They're all assholes."

  "You can trust Mark." The words slipped off of my tongue, and Csilla swiveled her head toward me.

  "Do you like him?" Her voice hid malice, thinly veiled.

  "He's just a friend," I said carefully. "But he's a good friend. He's loyal. You can trust him."

  "He's alright. Not that cute, but smart." Csilla stretched her head back, her face lit by the sun, her skirt swirling around her crossed legs. She closed her eyes. She could have been on the cover of a fashion magazine. If Mark thought she was anything other than a pretty face with a mean person behind it, he was wrong. I was about to say goodbye when she spoke again.

  "You're fucking Dr. Herceg, right?" she asked.

  I flushed, the blood rising to my face instantly.

  "I—I—"

  “That's okay, I get it. He's hot, if you don't mind the scars," she said.

  "I don't." My heart was racing, and my hands clenched into fists.

  She flicked ash off of the end of her cigarette.

  "Hey, whatever suits you. You're not the first kid he's screwed around with, though." She looked up at me, a sly smile on her face.

  The adrenaline rushing through my body made me tremble with rage. I wanted to hit her, to punch her face through the wall. I tilted my chin up.

  "I'm not exactly a kid."

  "She was, though." Csilla picked up the newspaper she had put aside and held it out to me. "Can you read Hungarian?"

  "What's that?" I asked. I didn't reach out to take the paper. I wasn't sure I wanted to read it.

  "You're not curious? There's a whole spread today on your sweetheart, Eliot Herceg. How he fucked an underage escort and got away with nothing more than a slap on the wrist."

  "Nice rumors," I said, trying to keep my calm. "You should stop reading so many tabloids."

  "It's not a rumor," Csilla said. She stood up from the stoop and took a step toward me. "I remember when he confessed. Ten years ago. Every newspaper covered it. You can look it up." She looked me up and down. "He likes them young, I guess."

  "Shut up," I said. It came out a whisper.

  "There's a picture of you in the news today, too, in a bikini." She held the paper in front of my face, taunting me. "You know, if you want to workout at a gym, I know a fantastic place downtown. They'll really help you take some of those extra pounds off."

  I grabbed the newspaper from her and crumpled it in my hand. She waited, tense, as if she was waiting for me to hit her.

  I bit my lip and fought back tears. My ears were still buzzing. It couldn't be true. I turned away.

  "Bye," Csilla said. "I'll tell Mark you said hi."

  I turned back to her. She leaned again
st the stoop, the cigarette in her fingers down to its final ashes. Smiling sweetly, she took one final drag and ground the butt under her heel.

  "I'm sorry," I said. "About your parents. My mom was wonderful."

  Her smile faltered for a second, and I turned my back, walking away before she could respond. When I reached the other side of the street and looked back, she was gone.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Eliot

  Marta picked Eliot up in a white Ferrari. She leaned over the center console to kiss him hello on the cheek.

  "This is new," he said, buckling his seatbelt. "Was the Lamborghini too slow for you?"

  "That one was black," Marta said, waving her hand in the air. "Summertime is no time for a black car."

  He looked at the dash. "Does the speedometer really go up to 200?"

  "Don't worry," Marta said. "I'll drive slowly." She glanced over at him.

  "You really don't have to do this," Eliot said.

  Marta laughed.

  "If I didn't drag you to a salon, you'd probably cut your own hair," she said.

  "Clare used to cut it," Eliot said. He cursed himself for bringing her up, but Marta's comment about driving had made him remember her. So many things here made him remember her.

  "My stylist is wonderful," Marta said, changing the subject quickly as she pulled out of the driveway. "You'll look fantastic."

  "I had better," Eliot said. "I'm taking Brynn out for dinner tonight."

  "Oh, is that so?" Marta asked. "That must be why she asked me to go shopping."

  "She did what?" Eliot frowned. It was unlike Brynn to volunteer to buy new clothes. She made a fuss about not even being able to wear all of the new clothes she had.

  "We must have bought her ten new outfits," Marta said brightly. "It was so much fun! I hope she wears the blue dress tonight. It sets off her eyes so well."

  "I'll make sure to ask her to wear it," Eliot said. He didn't want to press the issue. He could always ask Brynn later.

  They chatted the whole way down into the city. Marta complained about how reporters had been covering the National Assembly's budgetary spending, and Otto was one of the Assembly members under the spotlight.

  "It's terrible, how these people love to carp over such trivialities," Marta said. "Don't ever read the newspaper."

  "I try not to. But the economy has gone under," Eliot said. "They're probably right to focus on spending issues."

  "Members of the National Assembly don't deserve to be insulted like that," Marta said. "Especially Otto! He works so hard!"

  "Of course he does," Eliot agreed. Privately he knew that Otto spent less time at the office than Marta believed: many of his "meetings" were afterhours drinking parties with all of the other good old boys in the Assembly.

  "Besides, there are so many other problems in this city. Have you heard about the riots?"

  "I try not to read the newspaper," Eliot said, smiling.

  "It's just terrible," Marta said decisively. She pulled in front of the salon and parked illegally on the street.

  "One of these days your car will be towed," Eliot said, getting out of the Ferrari. "And you'll have to walk home."

  "That's what cabs are for," Marta sniffed. "Anyway, nobody would tow a car with government plates."

  Eliot sighed and held the glass door open for Marta. He walked in after her, his head tilted down. Still, one of the customers sitting on the couch did a double take when they saw his scarred face.

  "—supposed to be a private appointment," Marta was saying to the receptionist. The receptionist nodded and went over to the customer. Eliot touched Marta's arm.

  "There's no need—I don't require so much privacy."

  "Nonsense," Marta said. "People stare. I hate it."

  Eliot swallowed hard, but before he could respond, the stylist came out of the back.

  "Welcome, Dr. Herceg!" he said, bouncing over to Eliot. "Please, come this way."

  Eliot let himself be led into the back. Marta and the stylist chattered eagerly about his hair while he waited patiently, nodding in mute agreement whenever Marta suggested a course of action. When he sat in the stylist's chair, however, he flinched at his reflection in the mirror. The scar on the right side of his face broke his visage in two. The white seam ran from his hairline down to where the hairstylist had attached the collar of the cape around his neck. He hadn't looked in a mirror in full light for a long time; to see his face in stark brightness made him inhale sharply. No wonder people stared.

  The scissors began to snip away dark locks of his hair, but his eyes were transfixed by the puckered skin of his scar. His lip lifted in a grimace unconsciously as he sat there, forced to look at himself.

  "Now don't worry," the stylist said, concerned by Eliot's expression. "When it's done you'll be just fine."

  "That's not it," Eliot said, frowning. "I trust you, I just—"

  A shout rang out from outside the salon, then another. Eliot turned his head to see what the commotion was about, almost poking his eye into the scissors.

  "Hold still," the stylist said.

  "What on earth is that?" Marta said. She walked towards the glass windows of the salon, and when she looked outside her hand flew to her mouth.

  "Eliot!" she cried.

  A woman outside screamed. Eliot tore the hairstylist cape off of his neck and ran toward Marta, who was pulling open the door. When he got there, he saw what had made her cry out.

  It was a protest of a few dozen people carrying signs, but two of the men were kicking the side of the Ferrari. Pedestrians quickly ran away from the scene. A second passed before Eliot could make out what the men were yelling.

  "Down with government scum!"

  "Filthy pigs!"

  Marta began to step outside, but Eliot pulled her back just as someone threw a bottle at the door. It shattered on the frame and sprayed glass shards across both of them. Marta shrieked.

  "There they are!"

  "Criminals! All of you, criminals!"

  Eliot swung the door shut and locked the deadbolt just as one of the protesters came up to the salon. The man pounded on the glass with a sign that read "No More Government Spending!"

  "Open up, swine!"

  The receptionist was already on the phone with the police. "Come quick! Quick! They're angry...they want to kill us!" she said, her voice near hysteria. "Please send the police. Send all the police you can!"

  "Go away!" Marta screamed at the protesters through her tears. "Leave us alone!"

  Eliot took her in his arms and pushed her toward the back of the salon. Her hair still had glass shards in it, and he tried not to cut her accidentally. The crowd had moved to the front windows, and the pounding shook the walls.

  "Is there a back room?" Eliot asked the stylist. The man was staring blankly at the protesters outside, an expression of terror on his face. "Hey! Is there a back room?" Eliot shook the man's shoulder.

  "Yes...yes," the man said. "The storage closet."

  "Let's go!" Eliot shouted. The receptionist joined them and they made their way to the back, piling into the small storage room. Marta huddled in the corner and the stylist locked the door behind them, his fingers shaking as he turned the key. The pounding on the glass was still audible in the room, the thuds of the crowd reaching their ears through the door only slightly muted. Shelves lined the walls of the storage room, and the vibrations from the pounding made the bottles of dye and shampoo rattle against each other. The air in the small room smelled of hair setting product and bleach, a chemical smell that made Eliot's eyes water with its intensity.

  "Why?" Marta cried. Her eyes were wild. "Why?"

  "Hush," Eliot said. "Just stay calm until the police get here." Outside he projected an air of coolness, but secretly he wondered what would happen to them if the police failed to get there in time. A mob, once it turned violent, had no reason behind it. If the glass windows broke, it would not be hard for them to kick down the flimsy interior door. He only hoped that it
would slow them enough for the police to arrive.

  Marta sank down to the floor, one of her heels hanging off of her foot. Eliot crouched down next to her and began to pick the shards of glass out of her hair.

  "Eliot," she said, looking up at him. Her voice was oddly quiet against the pounding and roar of the crowd outside. "Eliot, you'll protect us."

  "Yes," he said. His hand was cupped, holding the glass fragments as delicately as if they were diamonds. "Don't worry. I won't let anyone hurt you."

  At the end of his sentence Eliot looked up. Something strange had happened. He realized after a second that the pounding had ceased. The crowd still roared, but the walls were not vibrating anymore.

  "The police must be here," the receptionist said. Her eyes radiated a panicked relief. "We're safe."

  "Should I open the door?" the stylist asked. He seemed uncertain.

  "Wait," Eliot said. "I'm not sure—"

  A crash from outside the room made the end of his sentence unnecessary. Marta screamed and scrambled backwards against the wall like a cornered animal. Eliot started as he heard the glass windows shatter, his fingers jerking tightly over the glass shards. Feeling the sharp pain, he dropped the handful of glass on the floor.

  "Your hand," the stylist said. Eliot looked down to see blood dripping from his palm. The receptionist handed him a towel from one of the shelves, and he pressed the towel against the wound.

  The crowd's yells were louder now that they were not muffled by the glass windows, and Eliot tensed, stepping in front of Marta to shield her if need be. Surely the crowd would be inside and through the door at any moment. Surely the wood would splinter and crack inwards. Adrenaline pumped through Eliot's body, and every muscle of his stood at attention.

  They waited for the crowd to come storming in. Nothing happened. Eliot heard the faint sound of sirens.

  "Oh, thank god," the receptionist said.

  Eliot looked down at his hand, still wrapped in the towel. The blood had soaked through the fabric, staining it a bright scarlet. His eyes refocused on the crack under the door, and immediately knew why the crowd had not stormed the salon. Smoke was coming in underneath the door crack.

  Marta shrieked as she saw the smoke, and pressed herself farther back against the shelves. The sirens sounded louder now, just outside the salon.