The Dirty Series 1(102)

There will be no need for food or flowers.

Marcus will get through this.

We will all get through this.

We will all put our petty differences aside and get through this.

I realize I haven’t moved since arriving in front of Marcus’s door. I’m standing in the same place in the hallway, hands hanging limply at my sides, when a woman approaches and puts her hand on my arm. Her face looks vaguely familiar. Perhaps she’s someone from my father’s staff, maybe, or someone who works in the palace? It’s a large household.

“Your highness,” she says, her voice low and tremulous, “we are all so very, very sorry to hear that—.”

“Oh, thank you,” I say, patting at her hand awkwardly. “Thank you for saying that. I’ll share your support with my brother. If you’ll excuse me—.” I incline my head toward the closed door leading to his rooms.

The woman—is it Shondra? Yes, that sounds right—steps back from me. She presses her lips together and looks at me, tears building up in the corners of her eyes. “Of course, your highness. Of course.”

Pulling the door open takes every ounce of my effort, but I just need to get in his room, get through the door, so I can finally see the truth for myself.

The scene inside Marcus’s rooms causes my heart to sink right down to my toes.

In the living area, three doctors are huddled together, heads down, speaking to one another in soft voices. The slump of their shoulders tells me this is either bad news or the worst news imaginable. If there was hope, they would be rushing back and forth with a sense of purpose. Their voices would boldly ring through the rooms.

I can’t bring myself to look at them as I go past them to Marcus’s bedroom. As far as I know, they don’t notice me either.

My stomach clenches as I put my hand on the doorknob. When I open the door, I will know for sure if Phillip was telling the truth. If he was, nothing will ever be the same.

I turn the knob, and the door opens silently. It doesn’t so much as squeak on its hinges.

I look into the room, and I know.

My father sits next to Marcus’s bed, his shoulders heaving with sobs. It’s the only sound in the room.

All the breath goes out of me. I feel sick to my stomach. My legs feel like jelly.

My brother is lying in his bed, still wearing his pajamas from last night.



But he is still.

So still.

Deadly still.



He is gone.



I go to my father’s side.

He does not look at me.



I stare at Marcus’s cold, colorless, still face. I notice his closed eyes, the way his chest does not rise.

He is gone.

He is dead.

Phillip told me the truth. He did not have bad information.

All across Saintland, the news must be breaking. If it’s in the hallway, in the palace, then it’s also in the streets.

Jessica’s face floats into my mind. I want her to be with me, by my side, right now, even though I don’t know what this means for me, for us. I don’t know what this means at all. It means everything and it means nothing at all.

How can I be both numb and consumed with aching regret at the same time?

“Father,” I say, the word a throaty gasp. “I’m so sorry. I’m so—.”

He does not speak, only reaches out for my hand and grips it tight.





Chapter Twenty-Seven





Jessica



For two days, I wait in an anxious limbo, Claire at my side.

She hardly leaves my suite, and neither do I. We both take up posts at either end of the sofa, watching the constant news coverage about Prince Marcus’s death. The story runs ad nauseam on Saintland’s news channel and is even covered by the networks in neighboring countries. It turns out that Saintland is a bigger player in European politics than I realized.

Not that I knew much about European politics before coming to Saintland.

Not that I know anything about them now.

But the news anchors all have their opinions, and again and again they discuss the only details that have so far been released to the Press.

The Crown Prince Marcus Henry Caldwell was found dead in his rooms at Sainthall Palace.

No foul play is suspected.

Prince Marcus was discovered at about 7:30 a.m. by James Hamilton, his head personal assistant.

He was unresponsive when first responders arrived.

Autopsy results have not yet been released.

Time seems to drag while I wait for word from Alec. He sends me two text messages, both are apologies for not being able to get away, unable to get back to me, and each time I assure him that he is exactly where he needs to be.

Unease settles in the pit of my stomach, and it stays there.

Damn it, I feel useless.

It’s hard to comprehend the gravity of the situation, not being from Saintland, but I watch Claire’s reaction to each piece of news as it’s reported. I want to know how the country is reacting. Claire hides nothing, shaking her head, sighing, and putting her hand over her mouth as tidbits dribble out from behind the palace walls.