Page 108 of Wicked Games (Fallen Royals 2)

She follows me through the dining room, pausing in front of my easel.

“Wait,” she says. “What’s this?”

“A painting.” I continue on, making a beeline for the fridge. I pour two glasses of water and carry them back, and she’s still staring at it. “Claire.”

She jerks. “Yeah?”

I force a laugh. “I know it’s bad, but there’s no need to gawk.”

“No, it’s pretty good, actually. Sorry. I didn’t sleep well last night.” She bounces on her heels. “Why are you painting Caleb?”

“We had to partner up for an art class,” I mumble. “He has to paint me, too.”

She hums, then drains her glass. “Interesting. I thought you might’ve painted him a little more gloom and doom. Based on what happened, anyway.”

“A lot has changed.”

Her attention tears away from the painting, to my face. “Really.”

She must feel the same way I do—that we’ve slipped away from each other. We used to be inseparable. Now look at us.

“I should get going,” she says abruptly. “Return the car before my foster parents notice I’m gone.”

Ah, see? She stole the car. Same old, same old.

“It was good to see you.” I hug her, holding her to my chest. It takes her a second to hug me back, and then her hands press against my skin. “Next time, bring Hanna.”

Claire giggles and pats my cheek. “Sometimes I think you like her more than me.”

I rear back. “What? No.”

Her expression turns serious. “You’re always asking about her.”

I do—because Claire is solid in front of me, and I have no way of knowing how her twelve-year-old sister is. One of us has to bring her up, or else I’d never know.

“I’m sorry you think that means I care more about her than you.” My voice is stiff, and I’m suddenly glad that Claire is on her way out. I take the glass from her hand, set it down next to my painting, and lead her out. At the front door, I pause. “I hope you know it isn’t true.”

Her face falls. “I know. I just get moments of jealousy sometimes.”

I stifle a sigh.

She throws her arms around me one more time. Her lips touch my cheek briefly, and then she pulls away. I stand in the door and watch her trot to the sleek black car parked at the curb. My first thought is that it’s fancy. Fancier than I imagined.

She revs the engine and takes off, tires squealing.

Sighing, I shut the door and go back to my painting. My groove is thrown off, so I don’t even try. I cover the paints on my palette with plastic wrap and leave it where it is. I grab my phone and flop on the couch, closing my eyes. There’s a pain in my chest from her judgement, like a steady second heartbeat.

I just need to put it out of my mind.

* * *

Past

Two scrawny girls entered the house. They carried black garbage bags with them, and they held on to each other with grubby fingers. I tried not to analyze their stringy, greasy hair, or the way the older one’s eyes darted around.

She found me hidden on the stairs, but she didn’t say anything. Her attention just snapped back to my foster mom and the case worker standing next to them.

I was rather abruptly yanked out of my last home and placed with Cindy and Jeff. I’d been here a few weeks, was settling in well according to Angela. I sometimes had nightmares of people in gray suits forcibly removing me from the home. One or two nights, I woke up sweating.

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