I skim my phone again like an addict, desperate for that next fix of news that might give me a clue that Daphne’s safe.
In the latest photos of Daphne moments before the shooting, her eyes are hollow as they stare at her father, yet her smile is plastered on like she’s been trained to do since childhood.
How is she? Is she still alive? Was she hurt? How is she holding up?
I call again, but nothing. Fuck, why isn’t she answering? I can’t sit here and wait. If I do nothing, I’m going to lose my goddamn mind.
Forcing myself off the tile floor, I rinse my mouth with mouthwash, spit into the toilet bowl, and flush everything away.
Hurrying to my computer, the latest article claims the shooter came from one of the hotels across the outdoor stadium. Directly across from the stadium, in clear view of where the President was standing, is a Starcross hotel with balconies.
The fucker would have been there. If I were going to assassinate the President, that’s where I would have done it. It’s the perfect spot.
Plunging into the icy depths of the dark web, I lurk through posts and comments about pipedreams to kill the President. People whine and complain about how terrible Fox is. They fantasize about how they’d kill him in grotesque detail. Stupid plans about mailing anthrax to the White House or creating a disguise to poison his drink.
But none of them give me a clue until I see one comment posted this morning, from the one name I never wanted to read again.
Ghost_M110
Not a grassy knoll, but a high rise? Poetic takedown for a man who thinks he’s the one on top of the world. Confirmed kill
Posted two hours before the shooting.
My stomach threatens to empty itself all over again as I read Ghost’s new post. He did it. Ghost killed President Fox.The fucker who shot through Daphne’s bedroom window. The one who stalked her from her therapist’s office.
I don’t care if he did what I couldn’t. Fuck it, I don’t care if Grover’s death is what stops the damn Bradshaw Bill.
Ghost shot someone inches from my woman. He put a bullet hole in her window. I’m going to find him. And when we meet, one of us isn’t going to make it out alive.
Not only does his username reference an Army sniper rifle, but the dumbass used the words “confirmed kill.” The guy’s military, or ex-military. I’ve got a gut feeling about this.
My phone rings, and my heart leaps into my throat, but it’s Tessa.
“Hello?” I answer, tap the speaker, and continue my search.
“Tris.” Her usually bubbly voice is weak. “Did you see?—”
“Yes,” I cut her off. “I’m looking for the fucker who did this.”
“Do you have any leads?” She’s hesitant, and I know that’s not what she wants to ask me.
“I haven’t heard from her,” I tell her. “As soon as I do, I’ll let you know.”
Relief whooshes through the phone. “Thank you.”
“As for leads,” I say, “I know the guy was or is military. Probably a sniper with that accuracy. He’s been posting online. He called it a ‘confirmed kill.’”
“Any idea if he’s still in?” Tessa asks. “I can help you search.”
“I saw his face,” I tell her. “He was wearing this weird hoodie when I saw him. Black, and it made up the American flag, but with guns instead of stripes and bulletsinstead of stars.”
“That sounds like something you could get off Amazon,” Tessa says with disappointment,
“Maybe, but that’s all I have to go on.”
“Let me look. In the meantime, can you get into the National Archives?”
A sarcastic laugh bursts from me as I hit enter and manage to get past the Archive’s firewall. “Nice timing. I just got in.”
