Roopa’s ebonyhair pops up over the wall of my cubicle. She flashes her bright smile when I’m mid-sip into my second cup of coffee.
“Monica sent me for the cancellation confirmations for Paul’s Thailand trip?”
“Monica couldn’t email me? Or message me? Or call me?” Seriously, she might be the Chief of Staff for recently deceased Senator Furt, but she doesn’t need to treat us underlings like carrier pigeons.
Roopa’s frustrated look mirrors mine. “I say we buy her two metal cans and a piece of string for her birthday. Think she’ll get the hint?”
Monica might have the managerial capabilities of a seagull, but she’s smart and has connections sprinkled across the DMV. She’s been in charge since Paul’s death two weeks ago until another senator steps in. Honestly, I just do what she wants. I don’t care about the work here, but it’s nice having health insurance and food in the fridge.
I need time to save. My savings is slowly building, and soon I’ll have enough to move out and put down a depositon my own place. I’ll find work far away from D.C. and do something better. I don’t know what, but anything has to be better than being a senator’s whipping girl. I mean scheduler.
“What did you think of Paul’s funeral?” I ask. “It was overkill.”
“A three-hour funeral? You’d have thought someone royal died. Not a senator,” Roopa says. “Did you hear he was murdered?”
Oh, I heard.Tristan called me the day after Furt’s body was found to tell me he killed my boss. He was the President’s whip after all. And I am never going to look at Operation the same way again.
Obviously, I told no one. My lips metaphorically remain sealed. I don’t think Tristan would kill me, but I won’t incriminate myself. And the thought of him rotting in a jail cell when Brent and men like him are still breathing doesn’t sit right in my chest.
I should feel guilty. Like, my brain is telling me that what Tristan did was wrong. Immoral. Morally black. Yet it doesn’tfeelwrong. No, it feels like there’s a little more balance in the world.
“I heard there were rumors of foul play,” I say to Roopa and keep that trained neutral expression on my face. The one I perfected as a kid. Standing on stage in front of cameras while old men gave boring speeches was a formative part of my childhood. I can fake smile, fake laugh, and fake orgasm with the best of them. I never could master the fake tears, though. Those were Paige’s specialty. Yet another way my dead sister will always be better than me.
“Mom’s friends with the Chief of Police,” Roopa leans in to make sure no one overhears. “They think it’s that serialkiller. American Guy Fawkes. The crazy guy who killed Representative McArthur last month.”
My lips pop open in fake shock. “No!”
Roopa’s eyes gleam with excitement. “Yes!”
“Has the FBI figured out who he is?” Worry swirls in my belly like a thunderous storm cloud.Did Tristan leave something behind? Was he sloppy?
Roopa shakes her head. “No, it’s like the man’s a ghost.”
The memory of Tristan in a ghost face mask in his basement brings a laugh up, but I choke it back down and fake cough. I take a sip from my water bottle as I fake cough again.
Roopa continues. “Apparently, he’s trying to stop the Bradshaw Bill. He left the bill on Furt’s kitchen counter. The Committee’s getting scared.”
“The Committee?” I ask, still trying to process.
“Yeah, the Senate Committee that’s reviewing the bill. They’re convening soon. Paul was supposed to be there as a Member, but…” She doesn’t finish. Roopa is Paul’s Legislative Assistant in the healthcare space. Of course, she’d be across the Committee meetings and the bills being shuffled around.
“So, the bill might pass?” My stomach tightens at the thought.
“Maybe. The Committee convenes next Thursday to decide if the Senate will vote on the bill. And it looks like they’ll have a majority. If it passes the Senate, it goes to your dad before the end of September.”
“In time for the election in November.”Shit. Since when do bills move this quickly? Furt must have kissed a lot of Congressional ass to push it through.
“Monica’s coming.” Roopa dashes off.
Monica’s heels stop clacking as they halt beside mydesk. “Daphne.” Monica’s voice cracks on my name before her hollow cheeks huff, her face flushed red. Glossy brown eyes glare down at me as her tight bun whips from side to side, and she shakes her head at me. “My office. Now.”
Monica can’t even string a sentence together?Shit, this is bad.
I fight the urge to ask what’s wrong as I bolt up from my desk and scurry behind her. We make our way through the wing of offices larger than my first college dorm.
“Shut the door,” Monica snaps as we wind into her office with the title “Chief of Staff” mounted on a gold plaque on the door.
I obey like the good subservient puppy dog I am. Seriously, I can only hope to train Hawkeye as well as Monica and Furt trained me. Head down. Work until you’re sweating, bleeding, or both. Long hours. Be there before they arrive in the morning and stay until they go home.
