The parking lot is mostly empty. The resort doesn't usually let people like Matt in, even just to park or turn around. It took a hefty bribe to get the guard to lift the gate and open up.

 

He tears in, motorcycle admittedly a bit unsteady. Matt isn't drunk, but he also shouldn't be spinning around like this. He stops the motorcycle, puts the kickstand down, and nearly falls over when he tries to get off of it.

 

He makes a beeline for the suite. He knows where Victoria is staying, has climbed into that window twice now, has helped her climb out of it just as many times.

 

There's a tree just outside of the window. Matt makes short work of scaling it, leaning out, and wrapping on the window.

 

Silence.

 

The lights are still on.

 

Matt knocks on it again. Someone moves around inside of the suite.

 

He knocks harder.

 

A rather unhappy looking maid appears in the window. She pushes open the window and says, “No cameras allowed. Please leave.”

 

Matt blinks. He's certain Victoria has already stated that there is no housekeeping while they're staying in the hotel, at least not until the late night hours while everyone was away for dinner. “I don't have a camera.”

 

“No recorders.”

 

“I don't have a recorder.

 

“No cellphones.”

 

“Is this Victoria's room? She, uh, she was staying here.”

 

The maid sighs, this long and drawn out sound. She shakes her head, looks over her shoulder, and spits out something in Romanian. Someone else in the room starts laughing.

 

“Shit,” says Matt. “I didn't climb up the wrong tree, did I?”

 

“No. The Princess left this morning. She is going home. You must go home, too,” says the maid. Then, just like that, she closes the windows.

 

The words sink into Matt's mind. They make his world spin, his stomach twist. It's suddenly like everything is growing dark from the outside in.

 

Climbing down the tree is an insurmountable feat. He nearly falls. When he hits the ground, the biker sinks down to his knees. “No,” moans Matt, distraught. “No! This can't be right! She wouldn't leave without saying anything!”

 

Would she?

 

No, that wouldn't happen. Victoria is torn, just like Meg had said. Which means, which means she would have tried to tell Matt she was leaving!

 

Hit with a sudden splurge of inspiration, Matt jumps to his feet. He races out to the parking lot, tripping over his own feet, and staggers to the motorcycle. His head is still spinning. His mind is split in two. What could have changed things? What needs to be changed?

 

There are so many questions and too little answers.

 

He flings himself onto the motorcycle. He revs the engine and takes off. The tires spin for a moment. They leave dark streaks against the pavement. Someone in the lobby gives him a dirty look when he rips past the main room.

 

The streets are mostly empty. Matt spins and rips through what little traffic there is. The airport is on the other end of town. He's only been there once or twice, as he has never really had the money for a ticket.

 

Someone else yells at him when he cuts them off, nearly laying down his bike in an attempt to get out of the way of a speeding taxi. He slams into a parking spot and hops off the motorcycle. He races into the lobby of the airport, shouldering his way past this person and that, until he can slam his hands down on the front desk.

 

The attendant gives him a tight-lipped smile. “Hello. I'm afraid you're going to have to go back to the other side of the lobby and get back in line.”

 

“I'm not here for a flight,” pants Matt, chest aching, lungs protesting. “I just have a question.”

 

“You'll need to get to the back of the line.”

 

“It's about the royal family.”

 

The woman gives a big sigh, like she's heard that question countless times before. “All right, sir. I'm going to just give you a brief rundown so I can get back to my job and you can get on to the next hot track news story.”

 

Matt isn't a reporter, but he doesn't argue. He just leans closer to the desk, trying to hear over the din of the airport lobby. He nods and says, “Thank you so much.”

 

“The Princess was scheduled to fly out alone. Her parents left on an earlier flight. She was to be in first class, but not on a plane by herself. The plane left early this morning, without the Princess.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because she never showed up. Her parents have already been notified. They say she must have overslept and are planning on getting another flight under way for the young thing tomorrow. You should try back then. Now, if you'll step aside and mourn your loss of tabloid fame on the other side of the lobby, that would be appreciated.”

 

Numbly, Matt listens. He slips to a dark corner of the lobby, back pressed up against the wall.

 

If Victoria has checked out of the hotel and she didn't make her flight, where is she? Feeling lost and confused, Matt stumbles back into the parking lot. A ticket has been pinned to the handle bars of his illegally parked motorcycle.

 

“Fucking shit,” snarls Matt, ripping off the piece of paper. “What a piece of fucking shit!”

 

“Watch your language,” snaps a mother, as she bustles past with her two children.

 

Matt flips her off. Just as he’s about to get on the motorcycle, his phone goes off. Trembling fingers pull it out of his pocket.

 

It’s Killian.

 

His expression sours more. He almost doesn’t answer the phone. When he does, there’s so much venom packed into his words that he can almost taste the hate, can almost feel it rolling off his tongue and taking on a physical form in the world. He demands, “What do you want?”

 

“Now,” says Killian. “Is that any way to speak to your best friend?”

 

“Killian, I’m not in the mood to deal with your shit. Tell me what you want, right now, or I’m going to hang up on your pansy ass.”

 

“Wow, Matt. I’m honestly disappointed in you. I thought you would be more excited to hear from me, considering I’ve got the answers to your problems.”

 

“What are you going on about?”

 

There’s a crackle of static. Killian answers, “I know what you’re looking for.”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” snaps Matt. “Spit it out, Killian. I mean it! I don’t have the time for this bullshit.”

 

“Actually, you have all the time in the world for me. Here, let me show you why. Just wait a moment.”

 

There’s a rustle of fabric and the static sound of air flooding the speakers of the cellphone. Matt wedges his own between the side of his face and his shoulder, swings a leg over the motorcycle and sits down while he waits.

 

It feels like there are ants crawling over his skin. Matt can’t remember the last time that he was this anxious. He can’t shake the thought that something bad may have happened.

 

Finally, Killian says, “Here. You listen to this and tell me what you think. Listen to this and tell me that you don’t have the time for me.”

 

Suddenly, a new voice floods the speakers. “Matt? Matt, is this really you? Please, you have to—”

 

A yelp fills the phone, accompanied by the sound of flesh striking flesh. “That’s enough,” says Killian. To Matt, he asks, “Do you have the time for me now?”

 

Matt can barely keep his fingers curled around the phone. In a harsh voice, he whispers, “What did you do?”

 

“I did what was required,” says Killian. “And now, you’re going to do what’s required, too.”

 

And in that moment, Matt realizes something.

 

Meg was right.

 

They are just young. They are young and scared and faced with too many choices.

 

Only now, he doesn’t have the option to pick one over the other. Instead, he tries to remember how to breathe, and asks, “What do you want?”

 

Killian’s smirk is visible through the phone. He says, “That’s what I wanted to hear.”