Katharine studied Margaret’s face for a few beats. “If you can make an official appearance, you can tell her yourself to back off. Hmm?”

  “Yes. I suppose.”

  **

  One week later, Margaret awoke and brushed her teeth. A new piece of paper, this one purple, festooned the space above the neon poster in her bathroom. It read:

  YOUR FIRST OFFICIAL APPEARANCE TODAY!

  Butterflies filled her stomach. She didn’t recall begging Katharine to make the appearance nor being granted it, but here she was, and she’d rehearsed her speech with Emma all week. They would present an award at an “Everyday Heroes” ceremony. Emma and Margaret’s recipient, a man named Joe Walsh, was a convenience store owner who insisted on installing a defibrillator machine in his store. It saved the life of a fifteen-year-old customer who went into cardiac arrest.

  **

  Eager, curious faces peered at Emma and Margaret as they strode into the backstage area of the hall. At least, Emma would have stridden if she were alone. Alas, Margaret had been in a wheelchair for a good portion of her years and still walked often with a cane.

  Not today.

  Today, she put one foot in front of the other and walked inside in a straight line, even if she couldn’t stride. Emma stayed at her side but slightly ahead to bear the brunt of the socializing.

  A jolly-cheeked, white-haired man approached first. “Mr. Brenner!” Emma said. “How nice to see you.”

  “Your Royal Highnesses,” he said, grinning and bowing his head. His gaze lingered intensely on Margaret’s face, revealing each and every question he wondered about her mental and physical fitness. Perhaps also her ability to have sex, for he was a randy old goat. Five times, Margaret and Emma went over the list of their fellow presenters, and Sir Edmund Brenner served as prime minister about a decade ago. He would present the award before Emma and Margaret’s.

  Margaret flicked her shiny brown hair back to reveal her neck. She realized what she’d done only after he gulped.

  **

  Edmund Brenner went on fifteen minutes later. Margaret and Emma watched him from the wings as they’d watched the other presenters. He launched into his speech, and Margaret mentally rehearsed hers.

  The master of ceremonies announced them: “Our next presenters are two of the most well-known women in the world. Princess Emma is the patron of the British Heart Foundation, and Princess Margaret is leading a drive to get more defib machines installed throughout the royal residences.”

  Margaret frowned. I am? Well, what else would they say? ‘Princess Margaret has been an invalid for years and years and has absolutely nothing to do with this award!’

  Emma started forward, taking the tiny steps she was accustomed to with Margaret. However, Margaret took a large step and then another. She walked as quickly as she could and beat Emma to the podium. She looked down at the microphone and then up at the heads and torsos filling the auditorium. She smiled the smile she’d rehearsed countless times.

  Goodness, the place was full! It was like all of Britain turned out to see Margaret. On her right, the words on the teleprompter started to move, but Margaret ignored them. They’d only confuse her. She would rely on her Swiss cheese memory, and it would come through this time. She knew it would.

  “On a sunny day last year,” Margaret began, “a man named Joe Walsh encountered a pile-up on the road. Later, after he got home, he found out that it occurred because a driver had a heart attack. Now, Joe knew about heart attacks. His mother…”

  **

  That evening, the TV news showed clips from Margaret’s speech. An elegant Margaret stood at the podium in her fitted white pantsuit. She spoke earnestly and passionately, and when Joe stepped on the stage to receive his award, she shook his hand and accepted the hug he offered.

  “Her Royal Highness Princess Margaret earned high marks in her speech and wowed the audience,” the news anchor said with a smile.

  Margaret gave a giddy laugh, her umpteenth of the night, and rewound the clip to play again. She kissed Adam’s face all over like Amalia had kissed the doll baby’s face. “I did it! I did it!”

  When he entered her an hour later, she harbored the illogical hope that it would be different this time. Maybe after his orgasm, he’d go down on her like Alec had.

  He didn’t, and Margaret put in a request. “Go down on me, Adam.”

  “Oh,” he said, a dumb look floating into his eyes but disappearing quickly. “Yeah, okay, sure.” He kissed and licked her down there, but his tongue hit all the wrong places.

  Well, it was a start, anyway.

  **

  The next morning, Margaret awoke barely able to think and move. The past week of intense preparation for her appearance exerted its toll, and now Margaret’s body let go.

  She stared at the ceiling and willed her legs to move out of the bed. She could wiggle her toes and shift her legs a bit, but they felt like dead weights. So did her arms, her brain, her everything. A trip to New York in the next few weeks seemed impossible, especially since Margaret needed to be sharp when rehearsals for Emma’s wedding began.

  Margaret sighed. New York would have to wait a few months, but she’d make good use of that time.

  Chapter Four

  Tessa caved and watched the wedding. Correction: The damn fucking wedding, Emma and Cheryl.

  When Britain’s queen mother threatened your life because you knew she killed her husband, leaving her youngest daughter alone seemed like the wisest course of action.

  But damn. That call from Margaret. She sounded so like her sister, Tessa wondered sometimes if it had actually been Emma calling, Emma getting cold feet after becoming engaged so quickly.

  My father’s death was not an accident, Margaret had said. Yeah, no shit, princess.

  On the TV, Margaret wore a gorgeous lavender Alexander McQueen dress. She smiled and swept down the aisle with a confidence Tessa had to marvel at. At Katharine’s wedding and reception, the queen’s middle sister had been in a wheelchair. She spoke in halting, short sentences. Less than two years later, she stood transformed at the altar as her younger sister vowed to love another woman from Chicago forever and ever.

  Tessa squeezed her stress ball.

  Amalia Van den Berg is a killer. At Purcell, you were willing to give your life for Katharine if it came to that. Why did you give in so easily when Amalia threatened you both times? Why actively work to let a killer go free?

  Tessa scoffed. “Come on,” she said out loud. Like she’d had any choice. This was the queen mother, for chrissakes. Britain would collapse if Amalia were arrested on charges of murdering the king. It would devastate Katharine and Emma, and Tessa cared about both women very much. Plus, Tessa had seen a different, kinder side to Amalia at Katharine’s wedding reception. Amalia would not kill her husband unless she had a good reason. Who knew what Henry had done to his wife? Was it anyone’s business?

  Ahhh, you and your justifications. Your excuses.

  The camera rested on Margaret’s face, uncannily like a younger Amalia’s in that few seconds. Blond-haired and blue-eyed, Katharine and Emma took after their father, but Margaret was a mix of her parents with somewhat more resemblance to her brunette mother. A beautiful woman like her sisters.

  A few minutes later, the camera found Veronica, who listened intently to the Archbishop of Canterbury. At least, she looked like she listened intently. Maybe she thought about her older two kids adjusting to Britain, the dreary weather or the lesbian bed death she was experiencing with Katharine.

  Tsk. Petty Tessa.

  She took a deep breath. It wasn’t like her life was anything to write home about. At age forty-two, she loved what she did, but it took a toll. Her personal life was nonexistent, and she always teetered on burnout. Her choice. Cold cases afforded a predictable 9-to-5 schedule, and many of her colleagues went home to their spouses and children after work while Tessa kept toiling. She lived in a cramped apartment she could barely afford. She threw herself into cold case after cold case in the same way that actors become their characters, and she emerged wrung out and exhausted. For what? Most of the time, no one was brought to justice. Real life worked that way. It wasn’t TV with its quick DNA testing, accurate eyewitnesses and neat, clean timeline progressions.

  The confessions too! If only people confessed in real life like they did on TV.

  You’re free, Tessa. Remember that. Veronica and Katharine, and Emma and Cheryl, they’re not free. The eyes of the world are always on them. Their prison may be golden and expansive, but it is still a prison. Embrace your freedom and the ability to choose your own path in life.

  After Emma’s wedding ended, Tessa brushed her teeth and took a shower as if to cleanse herself of jealousy and regret.

  It didn’t work. Bloody Brits. Bloody welfare royals. Bloody prancing princesses!

  **

  In early November several months after Emma’s wedding, Margaret finally landed in New York. Private trip, nothing official. She and Adam flew via a British Airways “First Flight” where their every need was catered to. Adam seemed vaguely embarrassed by it all. To be honest, Margaret was too. She’d started asking to see where he lived and to meet his roommates. He kept saying no, explaining that his place and his roommates weren’t fit for her.

  Margaret’s security detail, only two guards for this trip, drove them to The Mark hotel on the Upper East Side. They checked in about three p.m., and Margaret called Tessa. Why waste time? Tessa would come tonight.

  **

  Tessa had started to forget about Margaret’s call when the princess got in touch again.

  “Tessa,” Margaret said. “This is Princess Margaret. I am in New York. You either come to my hotel, or I show up at your workplace in the next hour. Your choice.”

  Oh Lord, no. Tessa glanced around at her surroundings, buying time. Across from her, Jacobsen leaned back in his chair and munched on a carrot stick, his wife’s attempt to curb his doughnut cravings. Across from him, Perrault squawked on the phone about something or the other. A pale Wilkins came toddling in and clenching her stomach. Food poisoning, she mouthed to Tessa. Sorry.

  Margaret absolutely could not show up here. The last thing Tessa needed was the other detectives picking up on the fact that the queen killed the king.

  “I will come to you,” Tessa said stiffly.

  “Excellent. Ten o’clock tonight, The Mark hotel, suite 406.”

  **

  The Mark was one of New York City’s finer hotels, but Tessa barely took in her surroundings as she rode the elevator up and knocked on the door of suite 406. A grim-faced security officer opened the door, and Tessa decided to forego pleasantries. “Detective Tessa Donovan to see Her Royal Highness,” she said.

  “I was not informed.”

  “It’s all right.” Margaret’s voice wafted behind him. “I asked her to come.”

  He let Tessa in and asked if she carried a gun. She said no, she left it at home. He raised a skeptical eyebrow and said that he would have to frisk her.

  “No,” Margaret said irritably. “Let her be.”

  Tessa followed the princess to her bedroom.

  “My friend Adam,” Margaret said, indicating a baby-cheeked young man, handsome in his own way. He had to be at least ten years younger than Margaret.

  “Hi, Adam.”

  “This is Tessa,” Margaret said.

  Adam nodded in greeting. “Nice to meet you.” He pecked Margaret on the cheek and said, “I’ll go for that walk.”

  Margaret closed the door after he left, and Tessa selected a vase to focus on. A blue vase, next to the bed and yawningly empty. It needed flowers.

  Margaret stood at the window and looked out. She was pale, her face pinched.

  “Do you really not remember that conversation?” Margaret asked at last. “About the perfect murder.”

  “Like I said, that week is a blur.”

  Margaret sighed. “Well, I did it. I killed my father. I did a murder so perfect, I don’t remember parts of it.”

  **

  At first, Tessa’s brain refused to accept what it heard, although she’d known for years that Henry must have been killed.

  But by Amalia! Not by Margaret.

  Later, after Margaret gave Tessa time to process the story and the details such as Alicia Hastings’s heated breath and the Les Larmes Sacrees de Thebes perfume, Tessa asked, “Why tell me?”

  “You understand the person I can be. I saw it in your eyes that morning at breakfast, and I can’t carry this secret alone.”

  Whatever you saw in my eyes, it was meant for your mother, not you!

  “What do you hope to accomplish?” Tessa asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  Margaret must have nursed the hope that once she told Tessa, Tessa would take charge of what to do. Pieces would fall into place.

  “Maybe…” Margaret ventured. “Can you tell me…”

  “What?”

  “Why would I want to kill him? I’ve tried and tried to remember, but I mostly recall good things. He was my daddy. He threw me up in the air. He made me laugh. There was that stuff with Katharine, but would I have killed him over that?” Her expression clouded. “I do love my sister, and he and Mum could be horrible to her.”

  “You were dreaming,” Tessa said. The easiest, most logical solution. “I don’t pretend to know you well, but you would not have killed your father.”

  “I wasn’t dreaming! I remember smelling Alicia’s perfume. I felt her breath on my neck.”

  “Dreams can be vivid.”

  “Like I said, I was not dreaming.”

  Tessa persisted: “I’ve worked on a few cases that involved dementia. In one case, a witness was positive he’d seen his neighbor carry out a killing. Everything flowed logically. It was perfect. It made sense, but forensic testing showed his account had to be wrong.”

  “I do not have dementia!”

  “Not as such,” Tessa agreed. “But I understand that you do have memory issues.”

  Anger flushed Margaret’s cheeks. “Explain Alicia Hastings, then. She exists, and she conspired with me! Look Alicia up. Talk to her.”

  “Did you?”

  Aghast, horrified expression. “No. I hate her. I never want to see the woman again.”

  “Look, Margaret, go home,” Tessa advised. “Go home, and forget that your dream happened. No good can come from pursuing this line of thought.”

  “He was my father,” Margaret whispered. “He was my daddy. I miss him. He used to throw me up in the air, and he…he…no matter what he may have done to Katharine, he was still the king. It was not my place to interfere. Tessa, you need to do something. Punish me somehow. Call Alicia Hastings if you must. Do whatever it takes so you believe me.”

  Tessa groaned. Why, oh why did she accept the invitation to attend Katharine’s wedding?

  “Please,” Margaret said. “Call Alicia. You can ask her for me—ask why I wanted to kill my father.”

  Tessa shook her head. “You had a crazily vivid dream, and that’s final.”

  **

  An ugly feeling sprouted inside Margaret as Tessa thrust her chin forth defiantly. Tessa was determined to not believe Margaret. She wouldn’t even investigate! It wasn’t fair.

  Margaret looked the detective over. She was dressed in black, her red hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, dark circles under her eyes, her jaw tense and insolent.

  “What is wrong with you?” Margaret said through clenched teeth. “I need punishing, but you don’t care.”

  Tessa’s mouth tightened. “Your Royal Highness—”

  “I ought to squash you,” Margaret snarled. “Like a bloody spider!” She bounded over to the maddening woman and pushed her. Tessa stumbled back but caught herself. She shoved Margaret, sending her flying onto the bed. Veins bulged in Tessa’s neck as she straddled Margaret and clamped her into place with strong muscles.

  Margaret struggled to sit up. “Let me go!” she hollered.

  “Margaret!” Tessa said, her face red as she struggled to keep Margaret pinned.

  “Let me go!”

  Tessa relented, climbing off Margaret.

  However, once they stood again, Tessa said in a condescending way, “I am on your side. I promise.”

  She wasn’t! Her expression made that clear. Rage overtook Margaret again—all this time planning her trip to New York only for Tessa to ignore her in person—and Margaret pushed Tessa a second time. Fury spread on Tessa’s face. She grabbed Margaret by the wrists and pressed her against the wall.

  Tessa was strong!

  She tightened her hold, and her grip became painful. Margaret stayed still, not saying anything yet, seeing how long she could tolerate the pain. She’d wanted punishment, after all. Plus, this was nice. People treated her as if her body could break at any moment. Not Tessa.

  Margaret’s cheeks smushed into the cool surface of the wall, and at last, Tessa did loosen her grip a bit. The pain turned into more of a pleasant ache.

  “Margaret,” Tessa said in a growl, her crotch pressing into Margaret’s arse.

  “Let me go.”

  Tessa snorted. “I’m supposed to fall for that again?” But her hands did slacken even more.

  Margaret took advantage of the lapse. She whirled around, stood face to face with Tessa, and bit into her neck. It was a lover’s bite, a shade on the rough side, but definitely a lover’s bite, nothing that should’ve elicited the loudness of the, “Fuck!” that came from Tessa.