Laura McGehee - The Royal Queens Reign

W ho killed the King? Kyle asked, while shining a desk lamp directly into his older brothers eyes.

I dont know, Trevor responded. Kyle cleared his throat in an approximation of manliness.

Who killed the King? Kyle asked.

I dont know.

Who killed the King?

I dont know.

Who killed the King?

I dont know! Trevor yelled. Dude, honestly, you can emphasize whatever word you want to, but it doesnt mean Im going to know anything. Can you please turn that light off?

The half-brothers sat in the Royal Investigation Chamber, which fittingly only contained a sparse, metallic desk and a chair designed to send sharp spikes of lower back pain radiating through ones spine in order to draw out the deepest of secrets.

Sorry, the light stays on, Kyle said. In all of his nineteen years on this earth, this was one of his very first moments of standing up to anyone who wasnt his own reflection in the mirror. As the youngest of the Washington Royalty, he was the last in line to be King and generally horrified at the thought of the sheer amount of public speaking leading a country would entail. Throw in the fact that he was ridiculously uncoordinated and once vomited when a girl he liked asked him to borrow a pencil (and that was just a few months ago), Prince Kyle was a veritable recipe for disaster, despite his deceptive good looks. At an impressive six-foot-five, he boasted the sort of defined jaw, passionate eyes, and well-muscled limbs that had not yet been ravaged by the toxins of old age.

For nineteen years, Kyle had meandered through his Royal upbringing much like a rose petal floating down a streamentirely too soft for the rushing forces surrounding him, and utterly unable to direct himself out of the flow. But when his father had mysteriously died on his nineteenth birthday, and what should have been the day of his wedding to the love of his life, something important within him had changed. Now he had meaning. Now he had power. Now he was the self-appointed lead investigator into the murder of his father, and he would get to the bottom of this mystery no matter what.

Trevor reached over and flipped the light off.

I told you everything I know, Trevor said. Plus, we were all together for the entire wedding day. And I was shackled to a dead lady. I didnt kill Dad!

Kyle considered his older brother. At thirty-two years of age, Trevor had the impressive stomach girth, the vocal capacity to talk about himself for hours, and the staunch belief in his own point of view that were indicative of the Washingtonian legacy of American rule. When Kyle was younger and Trevor was but a handsome young prince gallivanting through the Royal Village and loudly proclaiming his rapping skills to anyone and everyone, Kyle couldnt wait to grow up and be just like his older half-brother. But then Kyle had reached puberty, and he started to realize that Trevor talked so much because he enjoyed the sound of his own voice, not because he had anything important to say. It was disheartening to say the least, and Kyle had disconcertingly found that most people he used to idolize became riddled with more and more flaws the older he became.

Trevor may have become a self-obsessed, pudgy prince far past his prime, but was he a murderer? His story seemed to check out, sure. But Kyle also knew that his brother was harder to catch than a Royal Possum blending in with lumps of garbage. And although their stepmother Donna had assumed the throne as interim King, Trevor would officially be crowned in just a few weeks time thanks to the passing of their father. That sounded like a hell of a motive to Kyle.

Come on, man, Kyle pleaded. It was hard to play good cop, bad cop when there was only one copand when he was not a cop. Despite Kyles staunch belief in his #WhoKilledtheKing Investigation, the peasant populace seemed shockingly apathetic. Kyle had been Chattering about #WhoKilledtheKing for weeks now, and it had barely even cracked the Top Trending Chatters. Mostly people just wanted to look at pictures of King Donnas outfits and gossip about Trevors tumultuous relationship with his Queen-to-be Loretta.

Kyle ran his hands through his thick head of hair, shaking his head. I mean, do we really believe he just had a heart attack? Just like that?

Trevor shrugged. I dont know, dude. That man ate a shit-ton of cinnamon buns. But I do know that I have a lady friend to meet for a boozy brunch down south, if you know what I mean.

Kyle did not know what many of those words meant, but he could tell by Trevors lazy grin that he was referring to some sort of sexual act with some sort of woman.

Eloise just died! Kyle said. Trevors octogenarian fiance had tragically died on the day of the wedding, which had not stopped Trevor from still attempting to wed her propped-up body in a spooky scheme that seemed directly lifted from a late-80s filmic farce through dead-body humor.

Everyone experiences grief in different ways, Trevor said wisely, while stroking his beard. Also, its been like, two weeks, dude, time to move on.

Well, also, youre married! Kyle added.

Loretta and I have an... understanding.

Youre in an open relationship?

Sure, sure, if by open relationship, you mean she thinks Im going to Freemason training when Im actually meeting the newest Royal sous-chef in the pantry.

Thats absolutely not what I meant, Kyle said.

Well, it was great to catch up. Make sure to stay in touch! Trevor said, thumping Kyles back as he stood up.

If youre going to meet the Royal sous-chef, why is Loretta live-streaming you on your phone? Kyle asked, gesturing to the video call Trevor had just answered.