Page 9 of Broken Crown

Because I know, deep in my soul, that Jameson Gates had something to do with it.That Hayes Barlow is just being used as a scapegoat yet again.

But how do I make everyone see that?The mere notion of Jameson Gates being involved in something as gruesome as murder is preposterous.The man devotes so much of his time to charity.

Still, I can’t shake the feeling in my gut he played a part.

“Ready, ma’am?”

At the sound of Archie’s voice, I snap out of my thoughts, shifting my gaze forward and meeting his eyes.“Yes.Thank you, Archie.”

“Of course.”He slips out of the SUV and hurries to open my door, extending his hand toward me.

The instant I step onto the sidewalk, the sky lights up with all the flashes from the cameras, my irises burning.I do my best to ignore them, pretend they’re not there, focus on something else instead.Months ago, I never would have been able to make it more than a few feet without having a panic attack.I’ve been better lately.I still have moments when I have to remind myself I’m safe.But the panic attacks are becoming fewer and less debilitating.

My lips stretch tight across my face in a forced smile as I continue toward the hotel for tonight’s society event masked as a fundraiser.Reporters yell questions at me, most of them about Callie Sloane’s remains being found and Hayes Barlow’s supposed involvement in her death.But as I’ve been trained, I keep my mouth shut and do what’s expected of me.

I smile.

I wave.

I play the part of the beloved princess who has her shit together.

Until a face in the crowd stops me cold.

It’s Hayes Barlow.He’s aged, grown a beard and facial hair, but there’s no mistaking his blue eyes.The despair in them that night over a decade ago as he accused Jameson Gates of killing someone he cared about is permanently imprinted in my mind.

But Hayes Barlow has been dead for nearly ten years.How could it be him?

I squint, certain my brain must be playing a trick on me.But as I attempt to get a closer look, he’s no longer there.

In his place is someone else.

Who just so happens to have a gun aimed at me.

There are no screams.No panicked cries as people try to get out of the way.Which tells me this isn’t real.

That I’m dreaming yet again.

But unlike all the other times I’ve relived this traumatic experience in my dreams, I’m not immediately tackled to the ground.Instead, I stare at the man for several long moments.

For months, his face was foggy, none of his features all that clear.But tonight, I can see each detail with alarming clarity — angry lips, clef in his chin, and a prominent scar along his right jawline.

With a malevolent sneer, he applies pressure to the trigger, but I still don’t move, daring him to shoot me.

When he pulls the trigger, I don’t feel anything.Or hear anything.

I look behind me, thinking he must be a bad shot if he missed at this close of a range.But the crowd of reporters is gone, along with the line of cars waiting to let their occupants off.

I’m somehow in the back seat of the SUV with Callie Sloane, her empty eyes wide, mouth agape, the color drained from her face.I glance at the front seat, expecting to see Adam.

Instead, Creed is slumped over the wheel.

It doesn’t matter that I know nothing about this is real and I’ll soon wake up.I gasp for air, hyperventilating at the sight of his lifeless body.I frantically try to help him, but I can’t move, my arms restrained.I look down to see my wrists are bound to the arms of a chair.Which makes no sense, since I’m in a car.

At least I was.

Not anymore.

Suddenly, I’m transported to my bedroom, death lingering in the air as I observe Creed kneeling beside me, his wrists bound together in an agonizing grip.Then the man with a menacing scar appears before us, his gun glinting in the light as he presses it against Creed’s temple.

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