Wicked Games (Fallen Royals Book 2)

“Name?”

“Margo Wolfe.”

“Who are you visiting?”

I clear my throat. “Keith Wolfe.”

The guard on the other side of the glass is bored. There are other people—families, single people, men and women in business attire—scattered around the prison’s visitor entrance.

She types on the keyboard in front of her and grunts. “You’re not on the list.”

“The, ah, what?”

“The approved visitors list. Wait here.” She gets up and disappears into a back room.

I wait. A minute, then two. Five.

Caleb insisted on dropping me off this morning at the Bryans’ house. He had to borrow Eli’s truck, since his car was still at Ian’s. He didn’t think anything of it when I mentioned my foster parents might be suspicious. I was supposed to sleep at Riley’s place, after all.

Through the night and into the morning, he was unusually… handsy. Clingy. I don’t think he ever stopped touching me. My breasts, my stomach, between my legs.

I touched him right back. All over.

Until it was over. I climbed out of the car in front of my house, and he told me to call him later. Said he’d be waiting by his phone.

I smiled and pretended everything was fine—it was fine, on the surface. Underneath my skin, anxiety was gnawing at me.

And then Robert made me suffer through breakfast. He hemmed and hawed over the weather and what shoes to wear. In the end, he was stalling, too.

We drove the short distance to the prison, and he parked right out front.

“I’ll be here when you’re done,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

I nodded and took a deep breath, willing myself courage.

And now I’m here—I’m doing it. But apparently only if I get… approved.

Finally, she returns. “Okay. I need your ID. You can put all your belongings in one of the lockers. No phone, food or gum, drinks. No purses or bags, nothing in your pockets…”

She’s reading from a mental list, and I do my best to keep up. I slide my student ID through the hole. She takes a cursory glance at it then files it away.

“Take locker six. Code is seven-nine-zero-four. Then have a seat until we’re ready.”

“Okay.” I’m so out of my league here. I collect a few sympathetic glances as I scan the lockers and finally find number six. I type in the code, and it beeps twice, then swings open.

Slowly, like I’m moving through molasses, I empty my pockets and shut the locker. I don’t have time to take a seat. Something buzzes, and a door opens.

A guard calls, “Visitors, this way, please.”

I follow the group of people down the hall. I’m trembling down to my bones. But whether it’s from the cold or fear, I can’t tell.

This is my father’s home, in a way. He lives here, and has for the past seven years. Or, six, I guess? I don’t know where he was during the trial. I wonder if he sees it as home. If, after a certain point, he just gave up calling it anything other than his.

It’s how I was with my foster homes, after all. The foster parents were always Mr. and Mrs. This-or-That, the home was always their house, never mine. Because it wasn’t. It was temporary, just like prison.

I’m serving a sentence the same as my father, for things we both apparently did.

Our escort guard stops and presses a button. There’s another deep buzz, and the guard pulls the door open. “You can hug on initial greeting,” he says to us. “And goodbye. But no touching otherwise.”

I force myself to nod and stuff my hands in my pockets. I’m not sure I want to hug him.

There are round tables scattered in the center of the room with attached stools, the kind you’d see in an elementary school cafeteria. It keeps people from getting too close, I guess. By the windows are two-person tables, and I automatically drift in that direction.

Visiting families are already claiming tables. Some are eager, others bored. It makes me wonder who’s here on a regular occurrence.

He knows I’m here.

That thought alone has me weak in the knees.

I almost fall into a chair at a two-person table. I can’t stop the bouncing in my leg. It’s been seven years. Am I going to recognize him?

Is he going to recognize me?

Oh my God. What if he walks right past me?

Another visitor shoots me a look. “You okay, honey? You’re not going to pass out?”

I take a deep breath. “I’ve never done this.”

“They’re the same guys we know,” she says, shrugging. “At least they start off that way. You visiting a boyfriend?”

“My dad,” I whisper.

She exhales. “Yeah, I’ve got a fucked-up dad, too. He finally stopped letting me come visit. Now I just see my brother once a month.”

“That’s…”

“Depressing as shit? Yeah.” She forces a laugh. “But he passes on news of my dad, and I’ll take it. We do what we have to. Remember that. To survive this place, they have to do what they have to, and so do we.”

“Yeah.”

Another buzz rings through the room, and I almost jump out of my skin.

“Inmates entering,” a guard calls.

A door in the center of one wall slowly slides open on its own, and a guard walks through. He stops just shy of the door and takes a step to his left, admitting the inmates. Prisoners.

Their uniforms are khaki, their last names stitched over a breast pocket. Some scary-looking dudes come through the door first, finding their visitors and making a beeline in their direction.

The room breaks out into a low ripple of chatter as greetings are made.

I stare at the door, gripping the table like it’ll save me from getting sucked underwater.

I’m convinced I’m meeting a stranger until he walks through the door.

He is exactly as I remember him. Sandy-brown hair trimmed too short, a straight nose and full lips. He has the barest hint of scruff on his face.

His eyes are dark, like mine, and they find me immediately. Like magnets.

He pauses in the entrance, and the guard removes his handcuffs. Without hesitation, he strides toward me.

“Margo,” he says with all the warmth in the world.

Nothing could’ve prepared me for it. For the sameness of him. Exactly what I would’ve needed when I was ten. Eleven. Twelve. Hell, every year. Every occasion.

Why wouldn’t he let me see him?

Tears fill my eyes, and I throw my arms around his shoulders. All my internal debating—to hug or not to hug, to smile or frown, to be happy or upset—flies out the window. Happy. Definitely happy.

But also… not. Also, devastated.

“Hi, kiddo,” he whispers into my hair. His arms come around me more slowly, but once there, he locks on. “You’re so grown up.”

God, it feels so good to hug him.

We cling to each other until a guard barks at us to separate.

I shakily withdraw, swiping at my cheeks.

“Let’s sit,” he says. “It’s been a while.”

Not by my choice.

“How have you been? Your case worker was allowed to tell me a little about your foster homes… and the trouble you had. Running away.” His eyebrows draw in. “I’ve never felt so fucking helpless.”

“It’s okay.” I clear my throat, trying to rid my voice of the scratchiness.

“She made it pretty clear that you weren’t going to come see me.” Dad leans forward, into the table, and extends his hands. “You’re an adult now. I can’t even believe it.”

I take them in my own, even though it’s against the rules. His palms are calloused. He’s thinner than I remember, too, but harder. I’m not sure what to think about him talking to Ms. McCaw.

Did she not relay my desire to see him? Or is he lying to save face?

He’s the one who refused me. Not the other way around.

“My foster dad drove me,” I tell him. “They’re a really nice couple. They want to petition to adopt.”

He glances down at our hands and slowly withdraws. “Oh. How do you feel about that?”

“I—”

“I’m assuming you’re just here to see if I’ll give up my rights.”

His expression goes blank. I’ve seen the same thing on Caleb—it’s a defense mechanism. This is not going the way I wanted it to at all.

“I came here…” I clear my throat again. The best method would be to just blurt it out, so I do. “My memory is blocked. I remember being happy, and then they were taking you away in the park. That’s it. There are so many pieces missing, I need you to fill in the gaps. Just like I said in my letter.”

I don’t examine his expression and instead press on. “Did you give Mom drugs? Is that what I saw that made everything blow up?”

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

I freeze. “Everyone said you were arrested on drug charges. Trafficking or something. I wasn’t allowed to go to the trial… There’s nothing about it online. All I know is what I’ve been told.”

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

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

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

“Why didn’t some news outlet cover it?”

“Because the Ashers wanted it hidden,” he bites out. “Lydia and her brother-in-law in particular. They want—no, they need—the Asher name to be pristine.”

“But why?”

He leans forward, bracing his forearms on the table. “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.” I hold out my hands, staring at my nails. “Did you bandage me up?”

“We got into an argument,” he says. “It was heated. And yes, while I was gone… I fixed you up when I got back.”

I’d hate to see what a real fight looked like, if that was just the result of 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 hold fast. I need to know. It’s why I’m here, right? I can’t let this be in vain.

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

What?

Who?

“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 Hutchins?”

“Five minutes!” a guard yells.

Dad’s face has gone white, and he grabs my wrists. I suppress a yelp and stay perfectly still, while a guard yells behind him. Dad stiffens and releases me quickly.

“You went to Tobias Hutchins?” he repeats, voice low. “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.” 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?

He clearly has a story to tell, but it might take some tugging to follow a single thread through the tapestry.

“Yes,” I say. “I promise, I’ll come back. Now tell me what deal you took. Please.”

He grimaces. “I was looking at a life sentence for murder.”

My eyes go wide.

Murder?

Who was murdered?

I have zero recollection.

“The deal was voluntary manslaughter. Medium security prison. I have another five years before parole is even considered.”

I’m pretty sure I’m in shock. I can’t move. Can’t think. Dad’s in prison for killing someone. That’s… that’s so not the image I had of him. I didn’t think he would be capable of it.

“I didn’t do it,” he adds.

“Then why on earth did you accept the deal?”

He shakes his head.

“Time’s up!”

Inmates around us stand and hug or shake hands.

Me? I’m locked in a staring contest with my father, trying to sort through the different emotions fluttering around inside my chest. I might throw up.

He pulls me to my feet and wraps his arms around my back. His mouth at my ear, he whispers, “I was up against the Ashers’ top-notch lawyers, as well as a determined District Attorney. All I had was a shitty public defender who didn’t believe my story.”

I hug him back, blinking. “Why were the Ashers against you?”

He chuckles. It’s the most depressing sound I’ve ever heard, and it drills a hole straight through my chest. In one side and out the other.

“Because according to them, I killed Ben.”

Ben.

Benjamin Asher.

Caleb’s dad. Caleb’s dad is dead. All this time, Caleb didn’t mention it. He grimaced whenever I mentioned my dad, who he had loved up until… well, up until Dad allegedly killed his father.

And Caleb hates my father. He never hid that fact—because he thinks mine killed his. There’s no way my father would hurt a fly. Literally no chance.

“Let’s move it, Wolfe.”

I cringe, but the guard isn’t talking to me. His gaze is on my father. Steady, calm. They’re not in a panic, but they’re not going to let him take his time either.

Dad releases me and steps back, searching my face. I nod at him, unable to do anything more. I don’t think I can speak without screaming. My throat has closed.

He and the rest of the inmates file back through the door, and it slowly slides back into place.

He’s gone.

All around me, visitors stand. Some stretch, others just go right for the door where another guard is waiting.

I can’t move. My knees are locked. White spots flicker in front of my vision.

“Hey, hey,” the woman from earlier says, coming over. She grasps my elbow. “You okay? First time visiting, right?”

I nod.

“Yeah, first time can be intense. It gets easier. Although you look like you saw a ghost.”

I force myself to smile. “Yeah, it was intense. I haven’t seen him in a while.”

She hums. “Well, let me walk you out.”

Through the door. Down the hall. Once we’re buzzed through the final door and back in the waiting area, I take a deep breath. My first one in a while.

I grab my stuff from the locker and collect my ID from the guard at the counter. I can’t be in here anymore. Just visiting is suffocating… or maybe it’s the impact of new truth.

He said he didn’t actually kill Caleb’s dad. But nevertheless, Mr. Asher is dead. Someone must’ve killed him, whether it was Dad and he’s trying to preserve himself, or…

Or he was framed.

But there would still have to be motive and opportunity for the District Attorney to even get Dad arrested in the first place, right? They would’ve had to have evidence pointing them toward my father.

I storm outside with my emotions all over the place. I don’t know whether to cry or go on a rampage. He killed Caleb’s dad. The why is unclear.

He pled out and got a lighter sentence than murder.

Voluntary manslaughter.

It sounds so…

“Margo, are you okay?” Robert meets me halfway across the parking lot.

I fall into his arms, and a sob erupts out of my chest before I can stop it. Seeing my dad brings out all the ugly emotions that come with abandonment.

Fear. Longing.

Why am I not good enough?

Why didn’t you want to see me?

Robert hugs me tightly, with one hand pressed against the back of my head. “Shh, honey, it’s okay.”

His other hand rubs small circles on my back.

I hugged Dad and it felt like home. I can’t help but think that moment will forever be tainted by bars on the windows and confessions whispered in my ear.

Caleb knew I was going to come out of there as a different person. Did he know what my dad did? Of course he did! His own was killed, and he’s faithfully withheld that secret.

Why didn’t he tell me?

And it begs another question: what else hasn’t he said?

I can’t breathe over the lump in my throat. My whole face is on fire with embarrassment, shock. I slowly loosen my grip on Robert’s jacket, but I don’t release him entirely. I tuck my face against his chest and try to get a hold of myself.

This is fucking embarrassing.

I need to talk to Caleb.

He knows more—I know he does.

This ties into his family and my family.

My mind can’t grip reality. I’m furious and sad and overwhelmed, like a tornado of feelings that refuse to unknot.

“Breathe,” Robert reminds me. “It’s okay. What happened?”

I take a shaky breath. When I lean away, I’m ashamed of the tear stains on his jacket.

“I just…” I can’t immediately accept the truth, which means I can’t say it out loud either. “It was a lot.”

He guides me to his car, tucking me into the passenger seat then circling around. I watch him pass the front of the hood, bundled against the cold. He climbs in and turns on the car, and we sit there for a moment until the air gets warm.

It must’ve started snowing while I was inside. It falls thick and heavy now.

“Let’s go home,” I beg. “I could use a cup of hot chocolate.”

“Len should be home by now,” Robert says. “Maybe we take it easy and have a movie night?”

It sounds like the perfect distraction.

“Great idea.”

He hands me a tissue, then pulls out onto the street. “You can talk about it if you want. Either to me or Len, Angela, your new therapist… There are a lot of options.”

“I know.” My gaze returns to my fingernails. I shredded them at some point while in the prison, either listening to Dad talk or waiting for him to come out, but I didn’t notice the full extent of the damage. There’s blood caked around the nail of my index finger.

“I just wanted to say, without anyone else around—you know how Len gets, hovering—that I’m proud of you. You were so against seeing your father when we first met you. It’s only been a few months, but this willingness to open up⁠—”

I bite my lip, desperate not to cry again. “I want to stay with you. And thank you for taking the time to drive⁠—”

The SUV comes out of nowhere.

It smashes into the front corner of our vehicle, sending us flying. Robert reaches over, his arm across my chest as we catapult off the road. He tries to regain control, but in slow motion, we go off the road. The nose of the car goes down into a ditch, and momentum takes it from there.

I close my eyes, bringing my hands up to protect my face.

The car flips.

Glass shatters.

My head bangs against something, and the world flickers.

Screeching fills my ears, then the sound of wind.

And then, silence.

Darkness.

My breath in my ears.

Pain comes a heartbeat later, lacerating through me. I gasp, revived, and stare at Robert. We hang upside down, suspended by our seat belts. His eyes are closed. There’s blood on his head.

Black spots form in front of my eyes.

It’s hard to breathe.

“Robert?” I try to reach over, but my arm isn’t working right.

I unbuckle myself, stretching up with my working arm to lower myself to the floor—the ceiling of the car. Hot liquid pours down my face, and I give in to the wave of dizziness.

Just one second, I order. Then get out.

The longer I stay still, the harder it is to keep my eyes open.

Rough hands grab at me, and I fight them for an instant.

“Stop, I’m here to help,” a voice says. “It’s okay, Margo.”

How do you know my name?

I hesitate long enough for them to slide me out of the car. Their arm is wrapped around my chest, just below my breasts, and they manage to get me out through the broken window.

“How did you find me?” I slur. “Robert⁠—”

“He’s okay. The ambulance will take him. Come on, up to your feet.” My savior hoists me up, but my legs won’t hold me. After a moment, they adjust their grip and half drag me, moving backward. “You hit your head pretty good, huh?”

The voice is familiar. Distant. Talking to me through a tunnel.

“I can’t leave my dad⁠—”

A sharp inhale. Mine? Theirs?

“Where did you come from?” My heels drag across the pavement.

“You’re not hard to track down.”

I get a foot under me. My eyes open enough to see that we’re across the intersection by now. Robert’s car is almost unrecognizable. It’s crumpled, upside down. Smoke pours out of the hood.

“Wait. I need to help him.”

We stop, and I’m lowered into a sitting position. I stare at the car. I just need to get back there. Make sure Robert gets out. Why didn’t they get him out?

“I’m sorry, Margo,” the voice says. It’s familiar, but their identity is just out of my grasp. Behind a wall of some sort.

It occurs to me that I could look back and see who pulled me out of the car, but I just don’t care. I need to get back. It’s so cold, and my neck is so stiff. My whole body is locking up. The road tilts.

“This is what has to happen,” they continue. Loose gravel crunches as they kneel behind me. “You’ll forgive me, won’t you?”

Their hand wraps around my face. It covers my nose and mouth with a damp cloth.

I stop breathing and jerk, alarm bells ringing in my ears at the scent of chemicals. I try to get away, but I’m no match.

I can’t escape. My lungs scream at me.

Finally, I have to give in.

I have to breathe.

Chemicals choke me. And a second later, I fall into nothingness.