Twisted Palace

by Erin Watt

  If Steve asks, I respected the hell out of his daughter. Three times.

  “Nice sweatshirt, though,” I tell East. “What trash bin did you fish that out of?”

  He pulls the ratty thing away from his chest. “I wore this crabbing three summers ago.”

  “Is that the trip where Gideon got his balls bitten?” The summer before Mom died, we went to the Outer Banks as a family and fished for crabs.

  Easton lets out a roar of laughter. “Oh shit, I forgot that happened. He walked around with a hand in front of his crotch for a month.”

  “How’d that happen anyway?” I still can’t figure out how the crab jumped from the bucket to land in Gid’s lap, but his scream of pain made every seagull within a hundred yards fly off in terror.

  “Dunno. Maybe Sav knows some magic voodoo and stuck him.” East holds his stomach with one hand and wipes tears away from his face with the other.

  “They were just starting to go out then.”

  “He was always an ass to her.”

  “True.” Gid and Sav never made much sense, and it flamed out in a spectacular way. Can’t blame the girl for being bitchy toward us.

  “So Wade and Val getting it on again?” East asks curiously.

  “Well, you ended up having to get your own room on Friday night, so you tell me.”

  “I think they are.”

  “Why do you care? Did you want a shot at her?”

  He shakes his head. “Naah. I got my eye on some other chick.”

  “Yeah?” This surprises me, since Easton’s never settled down. He seems like he wants to tap every ass in Astor. “Who is it?”

  He shrugs, pretending to be absorbed with his smoothie.

  “Not even gonna give me a clue?”

  “I’m still debating what my options are.”

  His uncharacteristic reserve piques my interest. “You’re Easton Royal. You have all the options.”

  “Shockingly enough, there are some people who don’t subscribe to that theory. They’re wrong, of course, but what can you do?” He grins and then chugs the rest of his drink.

  “I’ll sic Ella on you. You can’t hold out against her.”

  He snorts. “Neither can you.”

  “Who’d want to?”

  Whatever comeback he was going to make is halted by Dad’s appearance at the door.

  “Hey, Dad.” I raise my drink. “We’re having breakfast…” My happy greeting trails off as I take in his somber expression. “What’s up?”

  “Halston is here and he needs to see you. Now.”

  Shit. On Sunday morning?

  I don’t spare a look at East, who’s likely frowning. I slide my stone face into place and walk through the space my dad makes for me.

  “What’s this is all about?”

  I’d rather know what I’m going to be confronting, but Dad just shakes his head. “I don’t know. Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it.”

  Meaning Grier wouldn’t tell him. Awesome.

  Inside the study, Grier’s already seated on the couch. A stack of papers about two inches high sits in front of him.

  “Hello, son,” he says.

  It’s Sunday and he’s not at church. That’s my first warning. Everyone but the worst kind of people go to church down here. When Mom was alive, we went like clockwork. After we buried her, Dad never made us go again. What was the point? God hadn’t saved the only worthy Royal, so there wasn’t much hope the rest of us were getting past the pearly gates.

  “Good morning, sir. I didn’t realize lawyers work on Sunday.”

  “I went into the office last night to catch up on some things and there was mail from the prosecutor’s office. I spent all night reading it and decided I should come here this morning. You’d better have a seat.”

  He gives me a thin smile and waves to a wing chair opposite him. I notice that he’s not even wearing a suit, but khakis and a button-down shirt. That’s my second warning. Shit’s going to go down.

  Stiffly, I sit down. “I’m guessing I’m not going to like what you have to say.”

  “No, I don’t think you will, but you’re going to listen to every word.” He points to the stack of paper. “For the past couple of weeks, the prosecutor’s office and the Bayview police have taken statements from your classmates, friends, acquaintances, and enemies.”

  My fingers itch to grab the papers and toss them all in the fireplace. “You have a copy of those? That’s normal?” I reach for the pile, but he shakes his head until I settle back in my chair.

  “Yes, as part of your constitutional rights, you get access to all the information they acquire, except for some documents the courts deem attorney work product. Witness statements are produced so that we can prepare a defense. The last thing the prosecution wants is for us to get a conviction overturned because they didn’t give us the appropriate evidence prior to trial.”

  Over the pounding of my heart, I say, “That’s good, right?”

  As if I hadn’t spoken, Grier continues. “It’s also a way for them to show us if they have a strong case or a weak case.”

  My fingers curl over my knees. “And by the look on your face, I guess the case against me is strong?”

  “Why don’t I read you the statements and then you can make your own judgment? This one is from Rodney Harland the Third.”

  “I have no idea who that is.” Feeling faintly better, I rub my palms against my sweatpants.

  “Nickname Harvey.”

  “Still doesn’t ring a bell. Maybe they’re interviewing people that don’t even know me.” It sounds ridiculous as I say it out loud.

  Grier doesn’t even look up from the page. “Harvey the Third is five-eleven but likes to brag that he’s six-two. He’s wider than he is tall, but because of his massive size, no one disputes his obviously false claim. His nose is broken and he has a tendency to lisp.”

  “Wait, does he have curly brown hair?” I remember a guy like that at the dock fights. He doesn’t get in the ring much, because despite his size he hates taking hits. He ducks and runs away.

  Grier looks up from the sheet of paper. “You do know him then.”

  I nod. “Harvey and I fought a couple times a while back.”

  What could Harvey say? He was involved in this up to his tiny ears.

  “Harvey says that you fight on a fairly regular basis down in the warehouse district, usually between Docks Eight and Nine. That’s your preferred space because one of the fighters’ fathers is the dock manager.”

  “Will Kendall’s dad is the dock foreman,” I confirm, feeling a bit more confident. Every guy down there is fighting because he wants to. Mutually agreed upon beatings are not illegal. “He doesn’t care that we use it.”

  Grier plucks his shiny pen off the table. “When did you start fighting?”

  “Two years ago.” Before my mom died, when her depression was spiraling out of control and I needed an outlet that didn’t include being pissed off at her.

  He jots something down. “How did you hear about it?”

  “I don’t know. In the locker room?”

  “And how often do you go there now?”

  I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. “I thought we went over this before.” The fight thing came up the first time Grier and I met over this murder mess—the one I’d wrongly thought would go away because I didn’t do it.

  “Then you won’t mind going over it again,” Grier says implacably. His pen is poised, waiting for me.

  Dully, I recite the answers. “We usually go after football games. We fight and then go to a party.”

  “Harvey says you were one of the more regular participants. You would fight two or three males a night. These fights never lasted more than approximately ten minutes each. Usually you came with your brother Easton. ‘Easton is a real dick,’ according to Harvey. And you are ‘a smug asshole.’” Grier pulls down his eyeglasses and peers over the top of the lenses. “His words, not mine.”

  “Harvey�
��s a narc, and he cries if you so much as glare in his general direction,” I say tersely.

  Grier arches his eyebrows for a second and then resettles his glasses. “Question: ‘How did Mr. Royal appear during fights?’ Answer: ‘Usually he pretended to be calm.’”

  “Pretended? I was calm. It was a dock fight. Nothing was on the line. There wasn’t anything to be excited about.”

  Grier keeps reading. “‘Usually he pretended to be calm, but if you said anything bad about his mom, he’d go ballistic. About a year ago, some guy called his mom a whore. He beat that kid so hard the poor shit had to go to the hospital. Royal was banned after that. He broke this kid’s jaw and his eye socket.’ Question: ‘So he never fought again?’ Answer. ‘No. He came back about six weeks later. Will Kendall controlled dock access and said Royal could come back. The rest of us went along with it. I think he paid Kendall off.’”

  I stare at my feet so Greer doesn’t see the guilt in my eyes. I did pay off Kendall. The kid wanted a new engine for his GTO, which would’ve set him back two grand. I gave him the money, and I was back in the fights.

  “Nothing to say?” Grier prompts.

  Swallowing the lump in my throat, I try to shrug carelessly. “Yeah, that’s all true.”

  Grier makes another note. “Speaking of fights over your mother…” He pauses and picks up another stapled document. “Jaw breaking appears to be a particularly favorite pastime of yours.”

  I clench my own jaw and stare stonily back at the lawyer. I know what’s coming next.

  “Austin McCord, age nineteen, still reports problems with his jaw. He was forced to eat soft foods for six months while his jaw was wired shut. He required two teeth implants and to this day has difficulty eating solid foods. When asked about the cause of his injury, Mr. McCord was”—Grier shakes the document a little—“pardon the pun, closemouthed, but at least one friend of McCord’s explained that McCord had been in an altercation with Reed Royal, which resulted in serious injuries to his face.”

  “Why are you reading that? You made that deal with the McCords and you said it was confidential.” As per the deal, Dad set up a trust to fund McCord’s four-year tuition costs at Duke. A gaze in my father’s direction reveals his own distress. His mouth is a thin line and his eyes are red-rimmed, as if he hasn’t slept for days.

  “Confidentiality of those deals are meaningless in a criminal case. Eventually McCord’s testimony can be subpoenaed and used against you.”

  Grier’s words pull my attention back to him. “He had it coming.”

  “Again, because he called your mother a bad name.”

  This is bullshit. As if Grier would ever stand for his momma being badmouthed.

  “You’re telling me that a man isn’t going to stand up for the women of his household? Every juror would excuse that.” No southern male would ever allow that kind of insult to pass unchecked.

  It’s one reason the McCords took the deal. They knew prosecuting that kind of case would go nowhere, especially against my family. You can’t call someone’s mother a drug-addled slut and get away with it.

  Grier’s face tightens. “If I had known that you were engaged in disreputable activity to this extent, I wouldn’t have suggested to your father that we settle this matter in a monetary fashion. I would’ve suggested military school.”

  “Oh, was that your idea? Because Dad always throws that threat around whenever he doesn’t like what we’re doing. I guess I can thank you for that,” I say sarcastically.

  “Reed,” my father chides from his place near the bookshelves. It’s the first thing he’s said since we walked in here, but I’ve been watching his expression and it just keeps getting bleaker.

  Grier glares at me. “We’re on the same team here. Don’t fight me, boy.”

  “Don’t call me boy.” I glare back, dropping my arms to my knees.

  “Why? Are you going to break my jaw, too?”

  His eyes fall to the hands I’ve got curled into fists in my lap.

  “What’s your point here?” I mutter.

  “My point is—”

  A soft ringing cuts him off.

  “Hold that thought.” Grier reaches for the sleek cell phone on the desk and checks the screen. Then he frowns. “I need to take this. Excuse me.”

  Dad and I exchange a wary look as the lawyer steps out into the hall. Since he closes the door behind him, neither of us is able to hear what he’s saying.

  “These statements are bad,” I say flatly.

  Dad gives a bleak nod. “Yes. They are.”

  “They make me look like a psycho.” A powerless sensation squeezes my throat. “This is freaking bullshit. So what if I like to fight? There’re guys out there who fight for a living. Boxing, MMA, wrestling—you don’t see anybody accusing them of being bloodthirsty maniacs.”

  “I know.” Dad’s voice is oddly gentle. “But it’s not just the fighting, Reed. You’ve got a temper. You—” He stops when the door swings open and Grier appears.

  “I just got off the phone with the ADA,” Grier says in a tone I can’t decipher. Confused, maybe? “The lab results from Brooke’s autopsy came back this morning.”

  Dad and I both straighten our shoulders. “The DNA test on the baby?” I ask slowly.

  Grier nods.

  I take a breath. “Who’s the father?”

  And suddenly I’m…afraid. I know there’s zero chance of me being that kid’s father, but what if some corrupt lab tech rigged the results? What if Grier opens his mouth and announces—

  “You are.”

  It takes me a second to realize he’s not talking to me.

  He’s talking to my dad.

  23

  Reed

  Silence crashes over the study. My father is gaping at the lawyer. I’m gaping at my father.

  “What do you mean, it’s mine?” Dad’s tortured eyes are fixed on Grier. “That’s not possible. I had a…”

  Vasectomy, I finish silently. When Brooke announced her pregnancy, Dad was certain the baby couldn’t be his, because he’d gotten snipped after Mom had the twins. And I was certain it couldn’t be mine, because I hadn’t slept with Brooke in more than half a year.

  Looks like only one of us was right.

  “The test confirmed it,” Grier answers. “You were the father, Callum.”

  Dad swallows hard. His eyes glaze over a bit.

  “Dad?” I say tentatively.

  He stares at the ceiling as if it’s too painful for him to look at me. A muscle in the back of his jaw flexes, and then he shudders out an unsteady breath. “I thought she was lying to me. She didn’t know I’d had the vasectomy, and I thought…” Another breath. “I thought, it had to be someone else’s.”

  Yeah. He decided it was mine. But I can’t blame him for reaching that conclusion. He’d known about me and Brooke, so of course the thought had entered his mind. I guess the other thought—that it could actually be his—never did.

  Sympathy ripples through me. Dad might’ve hated Brooke, but he would’ve been a good father to her kid. The loss has to be killing him.

  He inhales heavily before finally looking my way. “I…ah, do you need me here or can you handle the rest of the meeting on your own?”

  “I can handle it,” I answer gruffly, because it’s obvious he can’t handle a damn thing at the moment.

  Dad nods. “All right. Shout if you need me.”

  His legs don’t appear to be steady as he leaves the room. There’s a beat of silence, and then Grier speaks up.

  “Are you ready to continue?”

  I nod weakly.

  “All right. Let’s talk about Ella O’Halloran.” He shuffles through the endless fucking pile of papers and pulls out another set. “Ella O’Halloran, formerly known as Ella Harper, is a seventeen-year-old runaway who was found masquerading as a thirty-five-year-old and stripping in Tennessee just three months ago.”

  Has it only been three months? I feel like Ella’s been a part
of my life forever. Anger begins to pound at my temples. “Don’t talk about her.”

  “I’m going to have to talk about her. She’s part of this case whether you like it or not. In fact, Harvey said you brought her along to some of the fights. She was unfazed by the blood.”

  “What’s your point?” I repeat through gritted teeth.

  “Let’s go through a few more statements, shall we?” He holds up a document and jabs it. “Here’s one from Jordan Carrington.”

  “Jordan Carrington hates Ella’s guts.”

  Grier once again ignores my comments. “‘We invited Ella to come try out for the dance team. She showed up wearing a thong and a bra, prancing through the gym. She has no shame and even fewer morals. It’s an embarrassment. But for some reason Reed likes this. He was never like this until she came along. He used to be decent, but she brings out the worst in him. Whenever she’s around, he’s extra mean.’”

  “That is the biggest bunch of bullshit I’ve ever heard. Jordan taped some freshman girl up to the side of Astor Park’s walls, and I’m extra mean? Ella didn’t change me one bit.”

  “So you’re saying you were prone to violence even before Ella came along.”

  “You’re twisting my words,” I spit out.

  He laughs harshly. “This is a cakewalk compared to what a trial will be like.” He throws down Jordan’s statement and picks up another. “This is from Abigail Wentworth. Apparently you two were dating until you hurt her. Question: ‘How do you feel about Reed?’ Answer: ‘He hurt me. He hurt me really bad.’”

  “I never touched her,” I say hotly.

  “Question: ‘How did he hurt you?’ Answer: ‘I can’t talk about it. It’s too painful.’”

  I explode from the chair, but Grier’s relentless.

  “‘Interview was cut short because subject was distraught and could not be consoled. We will need to follow up.’”

  I grab the back of the chair and squeeze it hard. “I broke up with her. We dated until I wasn’t feeling it anymore and then I broke it off. I didn’t hurt her physically. If I hurt her feelings, I’m sorry about that, but she must not be too sad because she fucked my brother last month.”