**

  Tessa knew exactly where the story was, but she went through a few other drawers and files first so Margaret wouldn’t think she’d clung onto the story all these years.

  She hadn’t. She just happened to know where it was.

  Tessa drew it out of the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet in her bedroom and took in the top page. The title: The Best Six Days of His Adult Life. Three names in the upper left corner: Ted Deveraux, Katharine Windsor, Trisha Donnelly.

  She read the beginning, which Katharine penned:

  Monday began the best six days of his adult life. He woke up to the smell of bacon and syrup. His wife kissed him good morning in the kitchen—even slipped him some tongue, which he hadn’t gotten in seemingly forever. He grew hard with the promise of what might happen that night.

  At the breakfast table, his three teenage children communicated in multiple words. Gone were the grunts and glowers. His daughter Janet even smiled once.

  Yes, Monday certainly began the best six days of his adult life.

  Tessa sighed and returned to the living room only to find Margaret fast asleep, her head lolling. Tessa covered her with a blanket and accepted a call from John.

  “How’s it going?” he asked.

  “We’re cool. She fell asleep.”

  “You okay up there? Want some company?”

  “I’m fine, but thank you,” Tessa said. She hung up and took in the still form of Katharine’s sister, who, like Katharine and Emma, carried her share of pain, grief and secrets.

  Tessa stared and stared at the woman, the thirty-six-year-old princess, the woman who had been heir to the throne for sixteen years, and forced herself to think about the situation again.

  In police work, it was important to keep an open mind. Unfortunately, many officers and detectives did not. They zeroed in on suspects and developed tunnel vision.

  Such as it had been with Amalia. When Tessa learned that Henry was dead and who he had been with, she immediately knew Amalia had done it. Even when the coroner released a report of accidental death, Tessa pursued in her belief that he had been killed. She loathed Amalia that much.

  However, which was more likely: That Tessa had been wrong or that this woman who remembered killing her father had actually done so? Any third party who had perspective and distance from the case would tell Tessa that she’d blown it all these years ago and that Henry’s real killer slept in the living room with her.

  Tessa had begun to doubt too. She might be wrong about Amalia, and that meant Margaret could be extremely dangerous.

  Do something. Keep yourself busy.

  Tessa wouldn’t nip out to the gym or go for a jog, so she changed into her exercise clothes and started lifting barbells. Hard to believe she woke up this morning in The Mark, had breakfast with Margaret and found out that the princess broke up with Adam. Then the journey to Tessa’s apartment and Margaret’s admirable struggle to ascend to the third floor. Tessa had to work hard not to lend a helping hand or to say words of encouragement. Margaret was the kind of person who loathed feeling “lesser than.”

  It hadn’t even been past ten-thirty when Margaret fell asleep on Tessa’s couch, and she looked like she’d be conked out a while. Tessa lifted her barbells and tidied up the apartment, which, thankfully, didn’t need much. She even dusted and paid some bills online. She ate lunch.

  By one o’clock, she was antsy. She started most mornings by going for a run, and yeah, she could go for one if she liked—just had to let Margaret’s guards in.

  It didn’t sit right with her, leaving Margaret when Margaret expected to wake up to her.

  She did crunches, pushups, walking lunges and planks. Took a shower. Considered a nap of her own and got in bed, leaving her bedroom door open and a note on the table in the living room telling Margaret to wake her.

  Tessa couldn’t sleep. She replayed the events last night. Margaret shoving her, Tessa straddling her, the bite from Margaret that shocked Tessa…

  Tessa had been hitting the vibrator hard lately. Well, she often did when she wasn’t in a relationship. She masturbated most nights before falling asleep. It was fast, fun and efficient. She hadn’t last night, so maybe a quick jolt would prove exactly what she needed.

  Tessa chose a discreet silver vibrator from her bedside drawer. Several vibrators resided in there, but she went with the one that fit in the palm of her hand in case Margaret interrupted.

  Tessa closed her door, got back into bed, cleared her head and pressed the vibrator to her clit.

  Nothing.

  Her body refused to cooperate. Her sex drive wasn’t in the mood.

  Tessa sighed. She allowed the memory-sensation of Margaret’s teeth on her neck to emerge and take fuller shape.

  The pushing. The straddling. The beautiful woman.

  Tessa came soon after and replaced the vibrator. She wasn’t proud of having fantasized about Margaret and wouldn’t let herself dwell on it.

  She did manage to fall asleep for about an hour, an hour and a half. She awoke and surveyed the fridge and kitchen for dinner ideas. Ha! Many New Yorkers didn’t cook, Tessa included, and it looked like they’d have to order out.

  Hunger rumbled in Tessa’s stomach, so she put in an order with her usual Chinese place and texted John to let him know. He called asking about their plans for the night. She informed him that Margaret was fine, they would stay in and return to The Mark in the morning.

  “Sure you can’t make it back tonight?” John said. “It means Sasha and I have to take turns watching the building overnight.”

  “Pretty sure,” Tessa said. It was almost five o’clock, and Margaret still slept. A low-key night would be best. “Look, I guess you guys can…I don’t know, buy air mattresses and sleep in my living room?”

  “That would be great!”

  “Of course,” Tessa said. “Come on up after you’ve bought the mattresses. Oh, and get one for me too, will you?”

  **

  Margaret awoke in a strange bed. Sounds came from nearby—cooking sounds, maybe. She heard sizzling and popping.

  Footsteps, then a voice saying, “Hey.”

  Margaret met the gaze of a pretty redhead with friendly eyes. She smiled as she stood in the doorway, and Margaret returned the smile. She remembered some things—scrabbling up three flights of stairs, blue crayon on the wall, John leaving—so she knew this woman was safe.

  But who was she?

  Margaret had to wee, but the woman kept staring at her, waiting for her to say something, do something.

  Margaret rose and covered her mouth as she yawned. She needed to rinse her teeth and take her medicine.

  The woman lifted her hand. “The bathroom’s here.”

  Margaret nodded gratefully. She grabbed her cane and maneuvered into the bathroom, where there was barely any room to move around. The face that looked back at her in the mirror didn’t belong to any Royal Highness she knew. Instead, she looked like she’d been out all night partying. If only…she’d never gotten drunk. Never gone to college.

  Katharine attended Purcell College in Maine, although their father’s death meant she didn’t graduate. Emma went to Oxford and graduated with top honors.

  College was where Margaret had planned to fall in love for the first time. She would enter into a wonderful but tortured relationship with an impoverished artist who used her as his muse. He would have a lion’s mane of dark hair and fiery blue eyes. Their relationship wouldn’t work out, but they would make love for hours and watch the sun come up together. In her mid-twenties, she would date a string of young men, some serious, some dashing, a few goofy, and then she would clap eyes on the man she would marry. She’d know immediately that this man was meant to be her husband. They’d lock eyes, they’d both know, they’d get married and have all these wonderful children.

  The silly dreams of a fourteen-year-old girl that she never got to outgrow.

  Margaret used toilet paper to rinse grime off her teeth. Next, she ran the woman’s brush through her hair. Finally, she sat on the toilet and relieved herself.

  When she emerged from the bathroom, the woman with the red hair approached timidly.

  “Hey,” she said again. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Yes, quite. Thank you. What time is it?”

  “Five p.m. Do you want dinner? I put on some fajitas and fixings.”

  “That sounds good. Yes, please. Thank you.”

  The woman brought out a folding table, and on it, she set two plates, one for herself and one for Margaret: sizzling chicken and beef fajitas, refried beans, rice and tortilla shells. She also brought out water and wine.

  “I’m sorry,” Margaret said, giving in. “I don’t, uh, I don’t remember you. Who are you?”

  The woman’s hand fluttered to her neck. “I’m Tessa,” she said.

  “I still don’t…are we friends?”

  “Yes,” Tessa said in a strange, careful way that told Margaret no, they weren’t friends.

  “You’re American,” Margaret said.

  A wry smile. “I have dual citizenship.”

  Margaret’s heart raced. She must have traveled a long way from home. “Oh,” she said, concealing her anxiety. She went to her purse for her pills and brought the pillbox back to the table. Eyed the wine. She really wanted some, but…

  Fuck the buts.

  “I want a little wine,” she told this woman called Tessa.

  They dug into the food, which was delicious and filling. Hot too, and Margaret let the steam from the fajitas heat her cheeks. Also hot was Tessa’s gaze on her.

  “How did we meet?” Margaret asked.

  “We met at Katharine’s wedding reception.”

  Margaret started to remember—sly glances, laughs, giggles—and missing Tessa. Missing her with desperation others would notice only if they gazed into her eyes.

  Margaret’s heart caught in her throat. Good Lord! She was gay like her sisters, and Tessa was her lover.

  “We’re together,” Margaret said in a creaky voice. “I remember. We got together at the wedding, and you returned to the United States.” She frowned. “But you didn’t get in touch. You said you would. You didn’t.”

  “No,” Tessa said. “No, no, that was Emma. That was when I was with Emma.”

  “But I remember…” Margaret bit her lip hard, and the pain jolted a measure of clarity into her brain. She saw the scene through a different lens now—Emma sniffling in Margaret’s suite, drinking too much wine, Emma complaining that Tessa hadn’t been in touch.

  “You’re right,” Margaret mumbled, embarrassed beyond measure. “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, it’s okay,” Tessa said. “It’s fine.”

  “Emma talked to me about you,” Margaret said. “She really liked you. She talked a lot about how smart and interesting you were.”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  Margaret took her pills and decided not to drink the rest of the wine in her glass. Why was she here with Tessa? She wanted to know, but at the same time, she didn’t.

  So she ate. They ate.

  As they finished, Tessa asked carefully, “Do you…remember about your father?”

  “That he’s dead? Yes, of course.”

  “Okay,” she said in a way that conveyed Margaret answered incorrectly. “Do you want to go to back to the hotel tonight?”

  The hotel. Which hotel? Oh boy.

  “Let’s stay here,” Margaret decided.

  Tessa started to collect dishes, and Margaret got to her feet. “Hey, no,” she said. “Sit. I’ll clean up.”

  Tessa quirked an eyebrow. “You sure?”

  “Sure I’m sure,” Margaret said gaily. “You relax. Drink some more wine.” Her body needed to move. Her brain needed more blood. Plus, something told her that she’d come to see Tessa with a difficult task to accomplish, and wine would lower Tessa’s guard. It would get Tessa to talk to her.

  They were in New York, Margaret remembered now. The wondrous Big Apple, and Margaret had planned carefully for the trip and meant to stay a few months at least. She needed space from her family, especially her mother.

  “I don’t have a dishwasher,” Tessa said. “You’ll have to hand wash. You can use these yellow gloves so your hands stay dry.” Tessa brushed past Margaret into the kitchen area and bent to get a few box-like things. “You can put the leftovers in here,” Tessa said.

  “Got it. Go relax.”

  Washing the dishes, pots and pans proved soothing. Margaret put them on the rack to dry and put the leftovers in the refrigerator, noting that Tessa didn’t have much to eat.

  “Fingers not wrinkly,” Margaret said with a smile as she rejoined Tessa. She flashed her smooth fingers. “You have good yellow gloves.”

  Tessa put down her phone. “Aw, I’m glad.”

  Margaret noticed the bottle of wine and Tessa’s glass. Barely touched. Drat! Oh well.

  Margaret sat and crossed her legs. “What are we doing tonight?” Once—well, multiple times—she’d forgotten Veronica, her sister-in-law. Several times, Margaret would find herself in a room with Katharine’s wife and have no freaking idea who she was. She bluffed her way through these situations and other situations admirably.

  “I’m open to anything,” Tessa said.

  “We can go back to the hotel if you really want,” Margaret offered.

  “Mmm,” Tessa said. “That’s okay. We can go back tomorrow.”

  “Excuse me a moment.” Margaret grabbed her purse and made her way to the bathroom. She dug through her purse, found the notepad she sought and opened it to a random page. She expected awful, unwieldy handwriting to greet her. It resulted when she was tired or could not focus. Her oversize block handwriting was easier to read but devoid of personality. She preferred the scrawl but not by much. The page was empty.

  Margaret backtracked to the first page, but the entire notebook was blank. Blimey! Why would she not have written anything down?

  It was enough to trigger one memory, though. A series of memories, really. She’d written letters to her mother, sisters and a few others saying goodbye. Saying she needed to find herself, would be gone a while and that she hoped to fall in love with New York.

  Margaret returned to Tessa in the living room. “I’m not going home,” Margaret said softly. “Not for a while.” She remembered something else, going to Emma’s suite. She hugged her younger sister extra-long and hugged Cheryl, her sister’s wife, then went to see Katharine and Veronica and the baby. She hugged both women then asked to have a moment with the child. She took him into her arms, gazed into his blue eyes and memorized the details of his face. This little kid, this child, he was the future of Britain. Thank God it wouldn’t be the mental case spinster princess.

  Pricks panged Margaret’s heart. She missed them deeply in that instant, her sisters, her sisters-in-law and that doll baby, her replacement. But she was proud of herself for getting out, even though she could not remember how it happened.

  She ventured a look at the woman across from her, the woman called Tessa. Tessa must be helping her with the transition to New York.

  Tessa’s cellphone rang. “Hey,” she said, pressing the phone to her ear. “I’ll be over in a few minutes to get the baby. What?” She grinned. “That’s so cute. He did that?”

  She locked eyes with Margaret like she was trying to kindle a shared moment, but the word ‘baby’ stuck in Margaret’s brain.

  Tessa had a child! A baby. It was then that Margaret noticed Tessa’s ring, a huge creature not unlike those her sisters wore.

  Tessa got off the phone. “I’ll be right back,” she said. “The baby’s been with the neighbors. I need to bring him home.”

  True to her word, Tessa returned a few moments later with a bundle in her arms. Margaret stood in the living room reviewing Tessa’s books on crime. She had so many!

  Margaret forced herself to smile as Tessa held out her son to Margaret. Everyone had babies these days. Except Margaret. Exactly her luck that the person helping her in New York had a baby.

  Margaret swallowed her emotions and took the child in her arms. Despite herself, she sank into his sweet face.

  Tessa was looking at Margaret with a hopeful expression.

  “He’s beautiful,” Margaret said. “What’s his name?”

  “Henry,” Tessa said.

  “What? Like my father?”

  “Yes. Like your father.”

  Henry was a common name, but Margaret had to laugh at the irony. “Am I helping to look after him?” Margaret asked. “While you get me settled in New York?”

  Tessa scrunched her face like she was going to cry. “Margaret,” she said, taking Henry from her. “Look outside.”

  Margaret went to the window and opened the blinds. Her heart caught in her throat. Instead of a New York street spreading out below her, it was the familiar expanse of green with pond, the customary view she had from Kensington Palace. Early evening, from the looks of the light.

  Margaret didn’t understand.

  “Henry is your son,” Tessa said.

  “That’s crazy.”

  “Our son. He’s our son, Margaret.”

  Margaret finally noticed the heaviness of her finger. Her gaze slid down to her own ring and then over to Tessa and Henry. She hadn’t paid attention to the ring while she washed dishes because she liked to wear rings. She usually had one on some finger or the other, just not on this specific finger.

  Now she did.

  Her wife. And their son.

  Chapter Six

  Amalia

  The princess is gone. The words replayed in my brain, increasing the whirr of panic inside me. I wanted to wring the neck of the impossibly young security official in front of me, but I forced myself to smile.

  I’m sorry, ma’am, he had said the first time. The princess is gone. Margaret, I mean.

  Pardon?

  Her Royal Highness has, ah, done a runner, it seems.

  Runner? She’s done a bloody runner?

  A few years previous, Margaret disappeared from her bedroom in Kensington only to be found a few hours later talking with a group of elderly folk and their younger leader at Wellington Arch. Thankfully, most of the folk had some degree of dementia. Margaret didn’t remember that day. She’d reverted to her fourteen-year-old self and regaled the folk with tales from the family’s “recent” trip to Scotland. She told them about the dog, Bridge, a black terrier who had been dead for years. In Margaret’s mind, on that day, he was still very much alive. She told the folk about her father the king sneaking food to Bridge from the table.