Sixty-Five:
Prince Marlowe
I remembered dancing with Cecelia in the garden. I remembered leaving her to go back to my home. Then, I felt a gun pressed up against my back. “Hello, your highness.” It was a male voice that spoke. One that I recognized.
“Mr. Blackwood?” I asked. I wanted to turn around to see who it was, but he grabbed one of my wrists and wrenched it back behind me. I doubled over in pain, letting out a sharp yelp.
“Hello, your highness,” he said, “it’s a pleasure to see you again. Tell me, how have you been sleeping at night since you carelessly killed my daughter?”
“What are you talking about?” I grunted. “I had nothing to do with Vivian’s death.”
“Not directly,” he said, “but you wouldn’t date Cecelia,
