Page 147 of Wicked Games (Fallen Royals 2)

He tries to pull away, but I hold fast.

“I came here…” I clear my throat and almost chicken out. It’d be easy to say yes, that’s why I’m here. But it isn’t. “My memory is blocked. I remember being happy, and then they were taking you away in the park.”

I don’t examine his expression.

“Did you give the drugs to Mom? Is that what I saw that made everything blow up?”

“What?” Confusion laces his tone. “Margo, what are you talking about?”

I freeze. “A-Angela said you were arrested on drug charges. Trafficking or something. She said I wasn’t allowed to go to the trial…”

“Bullshit,” Dad whispers. “She really told you that?”

“I’m just trying to figure out the truth here, Dad.” I release his hands to wipe at my face again. “If that’s bullshit, then what happened?”

He glances at the clock on the wall. “Listen. Angela lied—or she masked the truth. Whatever her reasoning, I didn’t get sent to prison for drugs.”

“I tried to search it online,” I whisper. “And there was nothing. I couldn’t find anything about a trial.”

“Because the Ashers wanted it hidden,” he bites out. “Lydia and her brother-in-law in particular. They wanted the Asher name to be pristine.”

“But why?”

He shakes his head. “You saw something you shouldn’t have. And you told me about it when your mother told you not to.” He pauses, like he’s waiting for me to magically remember.

Sorry, Dad. This is all new information.

I wish I could just freaking remember. “She—you—one of you locked me in my room. There was yelling. Your room was destroyed.”

“We got into an argument,” he says. “It was heated.”

I’d hate to see what a real fight looked like, if that was just a heated argument.

I push that thought away. “Did you hurt her?”

He’s miserable reliving this—it’s written all over his face—and I almost apologize.

“I didn’t touch her,” he says. “But… I did hurt someone else.”

“Can you just be straight with me?” I demand. “Why are you in here? I talked to your lawyer, but he didn’t give me anything—”

“You talked to my—”

“Five minutes!” a guard yells.

His face is white, and he grabs my wrists. I suppress a yelp and stay perfectly still.

“You went to Tobias? Alone?”

“My friend went with me,” I mutter. “We were in the city looking at NYU.”

His face softens for an instant. “We’ll discuss your college search the next time you come in,” he says quietly. And then he’s back to brisk. “He got me a deal. A shit one, if you ask me, but what choice did I have?”

“What deal?”

He shakes his head. “You’re going to come back, right?”

Will I?

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