Page 13 of Fallen Princess: Shadow Stalker

“According to the label’s publicists, she was fired.”

“Because she did a runner.”

A silent protest plays out on her face with a skeptical squint of her eyes scrutinizing my comment.

“Okay, put it this way. Imagine an eighteen-year-old girl with no family to seek refuge from is cast into the world and tainted as she was by the media. All of you were in England when the news broke, an entire ocean and a continent between you. Don’t tell me you forgot how the tabloids here destroyed her, so I can only imagine the image she was depicted over there. America’s sweetheart turned gang-banging trollop.”

I look at my sister and cast her a warning eye. Even after all these years, I still feel that element of protectiveness with Eden. How many fights did the lads and I have with journalists hounding us for info.

“She was alone and scared,” my sister adds. “I don’t blame her for taking off. She did it to protect herself. But she’s getting the same royalty checks as you. So trace those checks, and you’ll find Eden Rivers.”

“And if she doesn’t want anything to do with me. With us?”

I don’t even know why I’m asking. It’s not like I’m considering it.

Abby approaches me, leans forward, and removes some imaginary flint from my shirt.

“Checked patterned shirts and chinos were never your thing. Leather and denim were. I reckon a decade of hibernation is enough for all five of you.

“Regarding Eden Rivers, well, the only thing I can tell you is that I remember a thirteen-year-old scruffy version of yourself giving a live speech in front of millions of viewers and convincing a music mogul called Oliver James to choose you among hundreds of contestants. He saw something in you, and if Eden doesn’t want to rekindle your romance, she’ll see how serious you are with your music. Maybe your dating talents suck, but your ability to move people with your music is something I know you can be successful with.”

I move from the doorway to allow her to pass.

“This song is your second chance, little bruv. It’s fate calling you back. This time, do it how you always dreamed of doing it.”

My brows furrow like storm clouds gathering on the horizon. This is a disaster just waiting to happen.

“But you need me. I can’t just fuck off and leave you here!” I shout at her as she walks down the hallway.

“Restaurant managers are plentiful. I’ll manage fine!” she says without turning around.

“Fuckin’ell Abby!”

“Love you right back!” She yells before opening the service door and entering the restaurant.

I retrieve the envelope from my back pocket, holding it in my hands with a contemplative gaze. Most likely, all five of us got this same check yesterday, and I have to wonder whether any of the others are entertaining the same haunting melody in their minds.

It’s still early, but I know where Asher spends his mornings before picking up a student to start the first of several instructional training sessions he has booked for the day. I head out towards the tube, intending to get on the Victoria Line to Battersea, knowing I’m heading straight into the morning rush hour.

I swear, Abby, this had better be bloody worth it.

1. British pronounciation for “military”

Chapter 3

Soft natural light filtersthrough large windows, casting a warm glow on the furry inhabitants. The scent of cleaning supplies and the earthy notes of dog-friendly detergents intermingle with the unmistakable aroma of the eager, loyal souls desperate for a bit of companionship.

The air is alive this morning with a symphony of barks, each a testament to the myriad stories that each canine has here. The atmosphere is one of resilience and compassion, a space where wagging tails and hopeful eyes tell tales of both heartache and the promise of a brighter tomorrow.

If I close my eyes and focus hard enough, I bet I can find a beat to work with. I tap my boot on the cool concrete floor to the imaginary music I hear as I lay out the straw bedding in one of the cages for a new dog arriving.

With a playful grin, I slowly open my eyes. I’m always searching for a beat in everything, even in the strangest places. As much as I refuse to allow music in my soul, it persistently finds entry, much like a daisy breaking through the unyielding embrace of harsh concrete.

I move to the next cage, and the Border Collie mix waits for me to slide open the cage. She’s happily wagging her tail like there’s no tomorrow. Her infectious joy radiates like a beacon of hope. Her fur, once matted and dull, now gleams with a newfound luster, a testament to the care and attention given to her by the compassionate volunteers.

“Alright, old lass?” I ask upon entering the cage. She approaches me for a heartfelt scratch. I crouch down and give her a hug and a hearty scratch behind her ears.

“I’d take you home if I could,” I whisper apologetically into her ear.

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