“Clear,” I mutter.
I turn back. Iris hasn’t moved. She’s staring into the dark room like it’s the mouth of a cave.
“Out,” I command.
She hesitates, then steps over the threshold. Her bare feet make no sound on the slate.
“Stay in the center of the room,” I say, moving to the security console on the west wall. “Do not go near the glass. If they have a thermal scope in the tree line, you light up like a flare.”
I start keying in the lockdown sequence, engaging the magnetic deadbolts on the stairwell access and isolating the elevator controls.
Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.
The sound of steel bolts sliding home echoes through the room.
“We’re sealed in,” I say, not turning around. “Varro has the lower levels. I’ve got the high ground. If they breach the gate, the automated turrets on the perimeter will chew them up before they reach the front door.”
I’m filling the room with noise. With the cold, hard math of survival. Because if I stop talking, I’ll have to deal with the girl standing behind me.
I have to deal with the fact that I locked myself in a bedroom with the daughter of the man who sold me out.
“Why did he say it?”
Her voice is small. Thin.
I pause, my hand hovering over the console. I take a breath and turn around.
She’s standing right where I left her. The lightning flashes again, casting her shadow long and thin across the floor.
“I told you,” I say. “He’s managing the narrative.”
“He lied,” she whispers. She lifts her head, and I see the fire starting to burn through the shock. “He looked right into the camera. He smiled. He made a joke about yoga.”
“He bought himself time,” I say. “If he admits you’re missing, the press camps out on his lawn. The FBI takes over his schedule. He loses control. By saying you’re away, he keeps the board clear.”
“Clear for what?” she demands, stepping forward. “Clear to negotiate? Or clear to forget me?”
“Clear to handle the problem.”
“I’m the problem!” she screams.
The sound tears out of her throat, raw and ugly.
“I’m his daughter!” she shouts, her hands balling into fists. “I’ve spent my entire life being perfect for him! I’ve curated his image! I’ve managed his life! And the first time—the first time—I need him to save me, he sends me to a yoga retreat on the news?”
She’s pacing now, a frantic, caged track. She walks to the unmade bed, my bed, and spins around.
“He erased me,” she says, her voice trembling. “He didn’t just lie; he erased me. If I die now... if you kill me... nobody will even look for me for weeks. They’ll think I’m extending my trip.”
She’s reached the conclusion I reached in the basement, but she’s struggling to swallow it.
“He made you disposable,” I say.
The word lands like a weapon, wounding her.
“He calculated the risk,” I continue, leaning back against the console. “A kidnapped daughter is a liability for a Supreme Court nominee. A daughter on vacation is a non-issue. He chose the nomination. It’s just math.”
“It’s not math!” She stomps her foot, the sound sharp on the slate. “It’s my life! He loves me!”
