Page 148 of Wicked Promises (Fallen Royals 3)

“Caleb,” the older girl blurted out. “Right?”

My lip curled. How did she know my name?

Their foster mother appeared behind them. “Girls? What—oh, hello. Can I help you with something?”

“I just wanted to speak to you,” I said.

Foster siblings.

Interesting.

How attached did she get to them?

Cindy, the foster mom, huffed at me. She was in a certain state of distress: her hair still had curlers in it, her makeup seemed mostly finished, but she still wore pajama pants.

“Come in, then,” she said.

She called to her husband, and suddenly the three of us were in the kitchen.

I looked down at the table we had gathered around. There were dirty bowls—only two of them, one was by the sink—and a half-drunk glass of milk. The husband was a bit frazzled, too, with his hair sticking up straight and his tie loose.

“I must commend you both on taking on such a problem foster,” I said to them.

“Problem foster?” Cindy asked. She turned to her husband, raising her eyebrows. “Claire?”

My eyebrow ticked up.

“You don’t mean Margo,” the husband, Jeff, said. “She’s been a saint.”

“She’s a good actress,” I lied.

I pretended to this family that I knew her. That I could see right into her soul and know the truth.

The foster parents were worried. I saw it in the lines creasing between their brows, and the way they glanced at each other.

“She gets jealous easily,” I said.

Cindy’s hand was resting on her stomach, and I went with my hunch.

“She can dissolve into fits of rage. I saw it happen a time or two. I can’t imagine what she would do if there was a baby in the house stealing all the attention.”

Jeff shook his head. “How do you know that?”

“We used to be friends.” I shook my head. “But she caused my father’s death and broke apart her whole family. She’s destructive. Dangerous. Even if…” My lips twisted. “Even if she acts like a saint.”

“Two years,” Cindy said faintly. “Two years we’ve had these children, and Margo…”

I watched her. It only took an ounce of doubt to infect her viewpoint. She was already classed as a runaway—what next?

“Thank you for letting us know,” Jeff said. “But why now?”

I glanced away. Part of the act. Shame, guilt. “I lost track of her, and honestly? I thought she might get better. But then I saw her the other day, and she was acting just the same as she used to.”

I never saw her. Today was first time I even glimpsed her in a year, and it was the back of her head.

It wasn’t enough.

But soon, she’d be back. Time was running out, and a certain foster home had opened up in Rose Hill.