You’re the most insufferable terrorist I’ve ever met.
Tristan
Terrorist?You wound me.
Daphne
It’s just a flesh wound.
Tristan
Please update your pop culture references.
Daphne
Bite me.
Tristan
Name a time and place, and I’ll happily oblige, Mike Tyson.
I bet that made you blush.
I can see that you’ve read these…
Poor little nepo-babymust be scratching her brain, wondering how I know, but now isn’t the time to give in to temptation and keep texting her. I need to move.
Not having my phone for the next few hours is going to be a bitch, but it’s not the first time I’ve gone hours without connection. My charged backup burner is in the glovebox in case there’s an emergency. I have Tuck and Tessa’s numbers memorized if something goes down, but with my main phone on and Netflix playingHouseon loop, it’ll be easy enough to track that I’m at home technologically.
Checking my disguise in my hallway mirror, I adjust the bald cap with a wig glued over the top. I’ve gone from a full head of dark hair to near-balding with a comb-over. My nose is wide, and the glasses make me look like a middle-aged Harry Potter. The forgettable black catering uniform matches the ones I cross-referenced on Google images and the caterer’s website: basic black button-up shirt, black pants, black sneakers that are a size too large, and coated along the bottom with putty to disguise any marks.
I’m as ready as I’m going to be.
Grabbing the specially-altered EpiPen from the desk—all thanks to Tuck and his uncanny ability to get drugs from the hospital’s pharmacy without getting caught—I head out in a freshly wrapped car, one disguised as an old Toyota. A car aficionado might notice that my car doesn’t perfectly match a Camry, but for the average person—and average cop—a ten-year-old sedan blends in without notice.
After over an hour of driving, I’m pulling up at the end of the street where McMansions dot along the road. I stride with purpose towards the house sprinkled with Secret Servicemen in black suits and earpieces straight out of an action movie.
My heart thuds harder as one of them waves a hand to me. “Sir, your ID.”
I dig into my wallet as I tell him I’m with the catering staff. And as far as their list goes, I am. With Tessa’s help, we hacked into their vendor list and included my alias among the catering staff.
“Ronald Greenwood.” The man in black checks my ID against his list and gives me a curt nod to let me pass.
Funny how murder is never the hard part. It’s always sneaking past the guards that’s the scary bit.
Soft pop music floats through the house from the backyard. Their neighbors must be loving this. The backyard shares fences with three other houses, and one of them is low enough to jump when everyone’s running around trying to figure out what’s happening to the Congressman.
Dodging people dressed in suits and cocktail dresses, I blend in as much as possible with the furniture. Luckily, no one here pays attention to us servants at these events.
Is Daphne like that? The thought of her treating me—and the staff—like peasants unsettles my stomach. She was born into this silver-spoon world, so I wouldn’t be surprised if she treated me like furniture today.
Shaking my head to dislodge the thought, I set my plan into motion. There’s one crucial element I need to place.
The EpiPen.
Sneaking upstairs, I hurry to the master bedroom and ensuite. Luckily, the pictures on the real estate website were recent; the McArthurs only bought this house three years ago. Enough to do some simple renovations, but not enough to dramatically alter the structure with any ghastly extensions. It’s outlined exactly like I’d planned.
Opening the medicine cabinet, I see it. An EpiPen, the box clearly marked with Jerry McArthur’s name. Using a neatly folded washcloth, I run it along my altered EpiPen to remove fingerprints and swap the medical devices. Dashing out of the ensuite and master bedroom, I go back downstairs before I’m spotted.
