"Amauri," I sob, folding in on myself as the name tears out of my chest. "They took Amauri."
My body shakes violently now. I can't stop it. Every breath hurts. Every movement sends cactus spines deeper into my skin. Tiny needles still prick my arms, my legs, my scalp. I must look insane, bloody, torn, feral.
"They told me I had to go to the hospital," I manage between gasps. "They said—said my head?—"
"You're not going to the hospital," Dad says flatly. "Not yet."
I stare at him again.
"Not yet?" My voice cracks. "Dad, I was beaten. I fell—I rolled down a?—"
"I know," he says. "And it's unfortunate. But right now, a hospital creates records. Records create questions."
"My son is gone," I scream. "What questions could possibly be worse than that?"
He exhales slowly, the way he does before a press conference.
"Jenna," his voice softens, which is worse. "Tell me exactly what happened. Who did this?"
"I don't know," I cry. "I don't know who did this or why. They just came in. Guns. They killed Jason. They took Carter. They took Amauri. I fought—I tried—I?—"
My hands shake uncontrollably. I hold them up like proof.
"They dragged him away," I whisper. "He was screaming for me. Dad, he was screaming for me."
Silence fills the car, thick and suffocating.
Finally, Dad speaks. "This was not random." I look at him, wild-eyed. Of course, this wasn'trandom! "I mean politically," he clarifies.
That word hits harder than any blow.
"They knew where you lived," he continues. "They knew who to take. They didn't kill you."
"They tried," I choke.
"But they didn't," he doubles down. "Which means you were part of the objective."
I stare at him, horrified.
"What does that even mean?"
"It means," his fingers rub his chin carefully, "that this was about leverage."
My chest tightens until I can barely breathe.
"Who would do this?" I whisper. "Why?"
He doesn't answer right away. Outside the tinted windows, Las Vegas blurs past, neon and darkness and distance.
"Jenna," he says finally, "you need to understand something."
I look at him, my father, the man who taught me how narratives work, how truths are shaped, how damage is controlled.
"This does not go public," he decides firmly. "Not yet. Not the way you think. You do not speak to anyone without me. You do not post anything. You do not make pleas."
"My son is missing," I scream. "What am I supposed to do?"
"You're supposed to let me handle it," he replies calmly.
