Page 5 of Wicked Games (Fallen Royals 2)

I’m delusional. Clearly.

After a night of limited sleep, I could stay in bed for a week.

I lie down and stare at the tiled ceiling. My eyes won’t close, even though they feel like sandpaper. I can’t cry, either. I spent most of the walk to Ian’s house swinging between stoicism and sobbing. No in between.

How could he do this?

There are questions that need answering.

I hop up and pull a notebook out of my bag. The way to get organized is to make a list.

Who is Unknown?

Why is Caleb set on ruining my life?

Tobias—Dad’s attorney?

When I try to remember my past, nothing happens. It’s like there’s a wall in my mind. It isn’t active unless I try to access the few months before I entered into foster care. I remember being with my dad in the park, but that’s because Caleb practically forced the memory out of me.

Maybe…

No.

I look down at my list again.

There’s more.

Where are Caleb’s parents?

What happened in our past?

Who sent the video?

My head pounds. Ian told me he knew. I’ll have to ask him again.

I lie back down and force my eyes shut.

Today’s been a clusterfuck. Being in Ian’s guest room… well, I can’t say that really makes it any better. My phone is off, at the bottom of my bag. I can only imagine the texts and calls piling up: Riley, Caleb. The Jenkinses might call to inform me that Angela will be picking me up. I might come back and find my stuff on the curb.

That happened once.

Angela was waiting for me next to a plastic bag of all my belongings—a few shirts, underwear, pants, and a toothbrush. The foster family hadn’t even given me toothpaste.

I prided myself on not losing my shit. I’d learned the hard way that tears solved nothing. They changed nothing.

Eleven-year-old Margo learned that bad things would continually happen. It was her new reality. I went into the system when I was ten, but for that first year, I was optimistic. I thought I’d go back to my mom and dad, that life with the Ashers would return to normal.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Margo

Past

The detective took my dad away.

A lady sat next to me on the bench and smiled. Even though she looked nice, she wasn’t particularly warm and fuzzy. Not like Dad when he held my hand on the way here.

“Ready to go, Margo?”

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