From downstairs, Hawkeye’s bark echoes up to us.
“No,” I rush past Tristan, nearly tripping on my way down the stairs.
“Stay away from the windows,” he calls down as he follows behind me.
Hawkeye’s standing by the front window, barking loudly at something outside.
“Hawkeye,” I call out. “Here.”
But Hawkeye doesn’t obey. His round doggy eyes are fixated on something outside as he barks repeatedly.
Tristan bolts past me and scoops Hawkeye into his arms and back over to me, out of sight from any windows.
“Do you have your phone?” Tristan asks as he holds a wiggling Hawkeye in his arms.
“Yeah.” I dig my hand into my jeans and pull out my phone.
“Call the cops. And tell them who you are. Call the Secret Service, too.”
Tristan’s voice rumbles low with a dark energy, a note I haven’t heard from him before that sends a ripple of fear up my spine.
If hell exists,it’s not fire and brimstone. It’s sitting in a police interrogation room, waiting, with no explanation. Even my curvy ass isn’t enough cushion to make the plastic chair comfortable, and I’m hangry. Aren’t they supposed to offer you a can of Coke from the vending machine or something like they do on TV? I’d strangle a guard with my shoelaces for a bag of chips right about now.
Maybe the police commissioner hates my dad and ordered everyone to starve and bore me to death.
They barely detained Tristan. He was free to leave after speaking with the officers outside my house for nearly an hour. Meanwhile, I got dragged in for what I’m sure the media will call a failed assassination attempt.
Did Dad hire someone to do this? I wouldn’t put it past him to pull a media stunt like this. Or maybe it was a real attempt on my life, and the sniper was a terrible shot. Or maybe someone wanted to scare me.
If that was their plan, it worked. I’m fucking terrified. Thankfully, I won’t be going back to that house ever again.
Before he left, Tristan said he was going to take Hawkeye to his house. He’d call his sister and ask her to dog sit, then he’d come back for the rest of my stuff.
That was hours ago.
Seriously, is there a point where I’m offered food?I shouldn’t have skipped breakfast.
Maybe starvation is some sort of tactic to coerce me into saying I hired a hitman to pretend to kill me, like it would help Dad’s campaign if some political maniac tried to kill his only living daughter.
After all, no one in their right mind would be mental enough to fake their own assassination, right? Especially for political gains.
The door opens, and two men in suits walk in, the same detectives from earlier. “Miss Fox,” Cory says as he sits across from me. “Sorry for the delay.”
“I’m sure you’re busy,” I say. “But if you’re going to keep me here any longer, is there any chance I could have something to eat? I haven’t eaten all day since we’d planned on getting food on the drive to Maryland.”
Cory’s face blanches. He messed up. “I’m sorry. We didn’t know. You could have said something earlier.”
I could have, but food wasn’t on my mind when I was asked to sit in the back of a police car and ride to the station like I was in trouble. I’ll bet my neighbors already sold those front-page tabloid pictures to TMZ.
Dad’s PR team is going to have to pull an all-nighter to fix this mess.
“I didn’t have an appetite earlier,” I say. “But I’m kind of starving now.”
“We won’t be keeping you any longer.”
Typical male: you ask for a free meal, and suddenly, they’re finished with you.
“Great.” I stand up, ready to head to the closest Seven-Eleven for taquitos. “Can I have my purse back?”
