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I make my way toward my desk and run my fingers along the cool surface, trying to push down the memories of all the times Creed bent me over it. Or sat me on it and spread my thighs, burying his face between my legs. Or any of the other things this piece of furniture bore witness to.
I lower myself into my chair, the cushions still molded to my frame. Bringing my teacup to my mouth, I take a long sip and stare at the communications box, wondering what’s waiting inside. Wondering if my father sent it so I’d be caught up on important matters concerning the monarchy.
Figuring I may as well get started, I open the box, lifting a stack of recent memoranda, running the gamut from updates to the child care policy for palace employees to talking points when questioned about the constitutional referendum on the ballot for next year.
I slide open the top drawer to grab a pen, pausing when I see another memorandum within.
But unlike all the other ones contained in my communications box, this one isn’t recent. It’s dated over nine years ago.
The day of Adam’s death, to be precise.
It’s not the date that steals my breath, though.
Instead, it’s the name at the top of the cream-colored paper, followed by a draft announcement of my engagement to Jameson Gates written by Gianna.
My thoughts drift back to the conversation I had with my father when I first arrived back in Belmont. How Gianna had allegedly been killed in a mugging mere weeks after Adam died. He assured me it was all just a coincidence, and perhaps it is.
But Adam always encouraged me to trust my intuition. Claimed people often overlook their instincts, and if they tuned into them more closely, they’d probably avoid quite a few dangerous predicaments.
So that’s what I do. I trust my intuition.
Returning the memo to my drawer, I stand, tiptoeing down the hall and into my bedroom. Tristan doesn’t stir as I grab my laptop from my bag and carry it back to my office.
I sit behind my desk and sip on my tea as the laptop boots up. Then I type Gianna’s name into the search engine. It takes no time at all to return dozens of articles about the circumstances surrounding her death, all of them essentially reiterating the same story my father told me.
A few weeks after I left for Paris, a BMW registered to Gianna Vale was seen driving in an area of the city notorious for criminal activity — drugs, prostitution, gangs. I may have lived a relatively sheltered life but even I know not to venture into the four-block area of “The Hive”, as it’s referred to by locals. Not unless you’re looking for trouble.
While I’m more than aware Gianna wasn’t exactly a saint, I didn’t take her for someone who got her hands dirty. Why would she, when doing so would put her position with the palace at risk? If something needed to be done, she probably had a long list of people she could call.
So why was she in The Hive?
Unfortunately, not a single article offers any explanation. They all claim it was a case of wrong place, wrong time. That a homeless man saw her expensive car and figured he could get a big payday. Like my father told me, Gianna’s blood was all over his clothes when he was arrested. In addition, her wallet and a few of her other belongings were found among his meager possessions uncovered at a nearby tent city.
I should be sympathetic toward Gianna and the fact she lost her life. A part of me is.
Another part of me can’t help but be curious about the man who took her life. Not out of some morbid fascination with criminals. But out of sympathy.
I scour article after article for the name of this homeless man, coming up empty. I’m on the verge of calling the Royal Police Headquarters myself to get a copy of the police report or arrest record when I finally find it.
Matthew Quinn.
According to this one article, in addition to battling bipolar disorder, Matthew Quinn had a long history of drug and alcohol abuse, which led to him living on the streets. But there’s nothing more. No details about the disposition of the case, which strikes me as odd.
After the arrest, the trail essentially goes cold. No articles about what happened during his trial. Did he accept some sort of plea offer? Even if he did, surely there would have been some mention of that, considering the amount of publicity Gianna’s murder generated.
I do some more digging, officially down the proverbial rabbit hole. What I find does nothing to assuage my previous skepticism about the timing. In fact, it only increases it.
Especially when I learn Matthew Quinn died when the van that was transporting him to the courthouse for his arraignment was involved in a fatal accident.
I understand accidents happen. Even in a relatively small country like Belmont, there are hundreds per day, dozens of them resulting in a fatality.
But what makes my hair stand on end is the fact that the company who operated the transport van is none other than Gates Enterprises.
I bring up a new tab and navigate to the website for Gates Enterprises. I’m not sure why or what I hope to find. It’s not like I expect there to be a giant admission of guilt on the home page. But maybe there’s some sort of clue.
“There you are.”
Tristan’s scratchy voice cuts through the silence. I whip my head up as he leisurely strolls toward me.
