Shattered Prince

His shook his head. “You don’t know. You don’t understand. Let me—let me play it. Just let me play it and you can listen and you’ll know, okay?”

I glanced at Mal. “What’s he ranting about?”

“Don’t know. I should kill him now.”

“Please,” Oscar said. “My phone. I’ve got a file on my phone. Just listen.”

I stared him down before grabbing the phone off the nightstand. I tossed it to Oscar and he quickly unlocked it, tapped a few times, scrolled a bit, and opened a media file.

It was a recording. No video. And it seemed old. The sound wasn’t good.

But a little girl’s voice came through, and it was Jules. I knew it the second I heard her. Jules, but as a child. I felt a strange disconnect and a chill ran down my spine.

“I killed him, I’m so sorry. He told me to, he, he, he told me to, he begged me to do it, I’m so sorry. Please, please, please don’t tell Papa. He’ll kill me and beat me so bad. I didn’t mean to hurt Vidal. I loved him and he loved me but please, please, don’t tell Papa. I didn’t mean to kill him! He begged me to do it!” Another voice cut into the recording. It was Oscar. “What do you mean, he begged you?” Then Jules again: “He was bleeding bad. I had to do it. I’m so, so, so sorry, please don’t tell Papa.” Oscar stopped the recording and dropped his phone.

“She was ten years old,” he said quietly. “Ten years old. She murdered my brother Vidal as a little girl. Do you know what that did to me?”

I stood and stepped away. My heart was racing. I didn’t understand. Hearing that confession from a little child’s mouth was horrifying, and I tried to imagine Jules hurting someone, but it was impossible. Still, she’d admitted to it, right there on the tape.

I paced back and forth. Mal watched me warily. Oscar looked exhausted. He was probably coming down from his binge.

That’s how he blackmailed her. That recording. He’d held it above her head for a long time, and made sure she’d never have a normal life again. He’d made her do things for him—steal from her own family, betray their trust—all because of that one event.

I looked at Mal. “Break his kneecaps.”

“What?” Oscar’s eyes widened. “Wait, no, no, please, don’t—”

Mal didn’t hesitate. He whipped the baton down and slammed it into Oscar’s right knee. The man screamed in pain and writhed, holding his leg against his body. I stood and watched, a strange pleasure flooding my chest. Mal grabbed him and shoved him back, and hit his left knee just as hard.

Oscar fell out of bed and groaned in utter agony.

“Keep an eye on him,” I said. “I’ll be back.” I left the room. Oscar’s painful sobbing followed me outside. I shut the door and took a deep breath.

Down below, a truck parked. I knew that truck. It was Mal’s baby. The driver’s side door opened and Cap got out, followed by Jules. They spotted me and I scowled. Cap must’ve gone to get her when she heard what happened.

Jules hurried toward me up the stairs. I met her halfway down the walkway.

“You have him?” She was breathless and terrified. “Did he call my father? Am I okay?”

“You’re okay,” I said, hugging her. I glanced at Cap. “Mal’s still inside. You might not want to go in.”

Cap shrugged. “I’ve seen him work before.” She walked past me and into the room.

I squeezed Jules’s hand. “He played me the recording.”

She looked up slowly. I saw the fear in her eyes. The abject terror, like something had reached down her throat and taken hold of her body. She trembled and stepped away from me.

“Carmine,” she said slowly. “Did you listen?”

“You said you killed someone named Vidal. Oscar says that was his brother.”

She began to blink rapidly. She twitched slightly and jabbed her fingers into her injured leg. I frowned and went to touch her, but she wrenched herself away from me.

“Vidal,” she said. “He was a bodyguard. But I didn’t—” She rubbed her leg furiously. “I mean, I must’ve, but I don’t—” She grimaced and shoved her hands against her eyes.

“Jules? What’s going on?”

“I can’t remember!” She stared at me then, her face pale white, ashen and gray. “I know I did something, but I don’t remember. It comes and goes, like a hazy dream. Sometimes I can see him lying on the ground and his guts spilling out of his stomach, and others—” She shook her head. “I don’t know, Carmine. I don’t know.”

“It’s okay. We’ll figure it out. You don’t have to—”

But she kept her distance. She wouldn’t let me get close. I needed to comfort her, because I was afraid of this reaction. I didn’t understand what she was going through and I wanted to help her. The pain was written all over her face, pain and suffering and more, years and years of it compounded into this single moment. I wanted to reach out and take some of the suffering away, but I couldn’t.