“More like she was hoping to get more views,” Blayne said under his breath. Ethan shot Blane a look. “She’s a nice enough young woman, but the whole ‘influencer’ thing is going to her head.”
“Then there was this scream, and a man plummeted from the tower. I was in total shock. I almost didn’t look up to find Blayne Dickenson, one of my English professors, peering out of the campus bell tower at the body below.”
The camera zoomed in on McNeil. “RTN can confirm exclusively that Blayne Dickenson, a graduate teaching assistant at Pennington University, is being credited with single-handedly stopping the massacre. This young man”—a closeup of Blayne in the tower filled the screen—“is an American hero.”
Blayne groaned, putting the heels of his hands into his eyes, hoping the pressure would make the television screen go away.
“And more than that, he’s agayAmerican hero.”
That caught Blayne’s attention, making him quickly look back at the screen.
The video shifted to the aftermath. There was chaos and panic, but amid it all, Blayne was sitting outside the tower on the ground, comforted by Ethan as they kissed.
“Yes, America. The other man in the video is Ethan Bond from the boy band ZERO. According to other eyewitnesses, all four members of ZERO attended the rally.”
Blayne stared at the screen as he watched the intimate moment between him and Ethan that was captured on film play for the world to see. It didn’t take a genius to see they were in a relationship.
“This footage is incredible, Emma,” Stephen said. “You’ve captured a shocking tragedy and a touching love story, all in one. The world thanks you for sharing.” McNeil turned back to the screen. “Tom, there you have it. We have a real gay American hero and his boy-band boyfriend.”
The screen turned back to Tom, who now had several faces Blayne recognized from campus, but he didn’t care what they had to say. He turned to Ethan to see how he was doing.
“Well,” Ethan said, “that just happened.Fuck.”
Chapter Twenty
Dr. Hennigan
She sat in her mother’s personal quarters, making the meeting almost a private family affair. Five women sat in the room. All looked like they could be having tea with the king and queen of England. Naturally, the thirteenth-century silver tea set on the seventeenth-century coffee table, once part of a lady’s sitting room in the Palace of Versailles, added to the ambiance.
Dr. Hennigan looked at her grandmother, who was sipping tea. Hennigan remembered her first tea-drinking lesson.
“You hold the cup and saucer at your waist,” the instructor had told her. “You raise the cup to your lips. First, you inhale the scent of the tea, then you can take a sip. Let it sit for just a second before you swallow. Last, you exhale through the mouth as you set the cup back on the saucer.” Of course, you kept your knees together and crossed your legs at the ankles. There were so many etiquette rules. Dr. Hennigan did not know how many of these little tea parties she’d be forced to endure in her lifetime.
“How did this happen?” Sara Hennigan finally asked. The matriarch of the family and Chair of the Foundation was visibly composed. Still, Dr. Hennigan could tell her grandmother was seething just below the surface.
Deborah, Dr. Hennigan’s mother, arched an eyebrow in her direction. Anytime she was forced into one of these meetings, she felt like a little girl being scolded. The only difference now was that she had Ms. Wilson and, oddly enough, Ms. Brighton at her side.
“Well, Grandmother.” Dr. Hennigan paused as she put her thoughts together.
“Spit it out, Phillipa,” Sara said. “I do not have all day. I have a busy schedule.”
Dr. Hennigan took a deep breath, maintaining her smile. “Grandmother, the story begins approximately twenty years ago. An agent was deemed inappropriate after training, and the decision to liquidate our losses and move on was made.”
“Yes, yes,” Sara said with a dismissive wave. “This is the part I already know. Whatdon’tI know?”
“Cleo Barnes and I escorted Elizabeth Cleburne to an old facility in rural Appalachia where she was disposed of and buried. And that was the last we ever heard of her until this week.”
“And we’re sure it’s really this ghost back from the grave?” Deborah asked.
“Yes, Mother. Ms. Wilson confirmed the facial recognition when our systems were restored,” Dr. Hennigan said, gesturing to Ms. Wilson to take her turn.
“Although Operative Cleburne has had some cosmetic work done over the years and now has a bad red dye job, the basic biometrics identified her with over a ninety-nine percent certainty.”
“How did this happen?” Sara said a little louder.
“We don’t know, Mother,” Deborah said. “I know you want to blame someone here, but we don’t know. The operation to liquidate Operative Cleburne was textbook.”
“Three shots, center back with the body dumped in a shallow grave,” Dr. Hennigan said.
