“Fuck!”
Seconds later, Daphne comes darting in, Hawkeye and a mutt named Moonshine at her heels.
“What’s wrong?” The panic in her blue eyes is a sucker punch to my gut.
“Nothing,” I tell her. “I’m fine.”
Daphne’s gaze darts from me to the screen and back again. “That didn’t sound fine.”
“I deleted a file by accident.” God, I hate lying to her, and it’s scary how easily the lie slips out. But if I tell Daphne about what Ghost is planning—that she’s his intended target—it’ll only scare her more.
No one but her family and the Secret Service knows she’s staying with me. Well, Tessa and Tuck do too, but they’d rather have their tongues cut out than risk putting one of us in danger.
“Can you restore it?” The innocence in her voice pinches my heart with guilt.
“Maybe,” I tell her. “I’ll find it.”
I’ll find Ghost.
Because if I don’t, Daphne might be the next person to die over this fucking bill.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
DAPHNE
It wasa stupid idea to wear mascara to my first therapy session. I thought therapy would be helpful, but damn, I didn’t think it would be a tearfest from start to finish. I’m going to need a Gatorade on the way home. I’m dehydrated from crying so much.
I fight the urge to hug Stacey, a sweet woman with salt-and-pepper hair swept into a chignon. Her maroon cardigan nearly skims the floor as she stands up and offers me a friendly smile. “You did well today, Daphne. The first time someone attends therapy can be difficult, but I hope you’ll continue to see me.”
I nod as I toss my handful of used tissues into the basket beside her desk. “I’ll be back next week,” I promise. Even though we only skimmed the list of topics I had bullet-pointed in my brain, the release from venting about Mom’s criticism of my weight left me feeling lighter. I could talk openly with so few people, and even then, I used to worry that I was being a bother—like my presence was annoying to others. Maybe that’s why I don’t have many friends.
Maybe that’s something I should bring up next week. I’d like friends—real ones, not political alliances and connections I made through networking. I’ve always wanted a girlfriend I could chill on the couch with, wearing an avocado face mask while we eat popcorn and raw cookie dough during a Netflix marathon.
Tessa comes to mind. Maybe I should invite her to go shopping or to a movie or something.What do female friends even do in their twenties besides brunch and happy hour?That’s all I see in movies.
“You can take your water with you if you’d like.” Stacey nods towards the half-drunk bottle of water on the table, and I dash over to grab it.
“Sorry, I forgot about that.”
“It’s alright, Daphne. Drink some more if you can.”
“I will.” I shut the door behind me as I leave.
A couple sits on opposite ends of a couch, but with identical gold wedding bands. Both skim through magazines, and the tension between them is so toxic that I could choke.
Leaving the office, I head to the elevator.
“Hold the door,” a voice echoes down the hallway.
I press my hand against the sliding elevator doors and keep them open.
A man in his thirties dashes into the elevator and beams a grateful smile at me, a dimple hollowed in his left cheek. “Thank you.” His cologne follows him inside, the smell of something sharp and smoky like tobacco. I catch a glimpse of his hoodie before he steps behind me and into the far corner of the elevator. His black hoodie has the white outline of the American flag, but instead of strips, they’re rifles. Bullets replace the stars on the flag. Someone loves the Second Amendment.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m a responsible gun owner, but wearing my political beliefs on my clothing seems narrow-minded and, honestly, stupid. Tell me you easily fall for propaganda without telling me you easily fall for propaganda.
The moment the door shut, my gut swirls with alarm. Something’s wrong. I’ve learned to trust my gut over the years—and it’s telling me to run.
But I’m stuck in an elevator with a stranger, and I pressed the lobby button before he got on. If I get off a random floor now, it’s going to look suspicious as fuck.
