The limo turns onto his street. His mansion looms ahead, gated and guarded, a fortress dressed up as safety. I curl inward, shaking, blood and cactus spines and terror pressed into my skin.
"They called the cops," I whisper again, like it's a crime. "The neighbors called the cops."
The limo pulls up at the grand entrance, and Dad shoots me hiskeep your mouth shutlook, one I know all too well. Silently, I follow him up the large marble stairs to the big iron gate-like doors. They pull open as if by invisible hands, but it's only Jeffrey, one of Dad's servants.
"Sir," he nods at Dad. "Lady Jenna."
Lady Jenna! He's always called me that, like I'm some kind of nobility. He was imported from England to serve Dad's ego. I'm not in the mood, but I force a tired smile at him, "Jeffrey."
He looks like he wants to say something, but Dad pulls me straight into his office. The scent of leather, wood polish, and something sharper and cleaner meant to signal control envelopes me, bringing up memories, none of them good. I pull the blanket I have still wrapped around me tighter, unfeeling of its roughness. The door shuts behind us with a heavy click that feels final, like the world outside has been sealed off. Spent, I sink onto the edge of one of the chairs, my legs finally giving out. The pain catches up all at once; my ankle is throbbing, my ribs are screaming, and dried blood clings to my skin when I move. Hundreds, no thousands of sharp, spikey cactus spines are embedded seemingly in every part of my skin and scalp.
Dad doesn't sit. He goes straight to his desk, already reaching for the phone.
"Marianne," he orders when the line connects to his live-in assistant. "I need you in here. Now."
It's the middle of the night, or early in the morning, however you want to look at it, and he has no regard for waking his assistant. He doesn't even wait for a response before hanging up. I hug myself. My teeth are chattering, even though I'm not cold. Without a word, Dad pours two scotches and holds one out to me. Numb, I chuck it down. Grateful for anything to distract me, even momentarily, from the pain in my heart.
Marianne Hale appears less than a minute later. She must have been asleep—she's wearing a bathrobe, her hair hastily pulled back—but she still looks professional somehow. Tablet already in hand. Bare feet silent on the hardwood. When you are a live assistant with a sitting senator long enough, you learn not to askwhy. Onlyhow fast.
Her expression is carefully neutral until her eyes land on me. Then—just for a flicker—something human breaks through. "Jesus," she murmurs. "Jenna?—"
"Focus," Dad snaps.
She straightens immediately.
"There's been an incident," he continues briskly. "Home invasion. One fatality. Two abductions. We are going to dictate the story on this."
"No," I croak. My voice sounds wrong, shredded. "No, I don't think so."
Dad finally looks at me. Really looks. Then he shakes his head once, decisive. "Find someone else to handle PR on this."
Marianne hesitates. "Sir?—"
"She's in no condition," he cuts in. "And I won't have her anywhere near the press."
Marianne nods, already making notes. "Understood."
"Take care of the police," Dad continues. "Keep everything compartmentalized. And for fuck's sake, keep the press out of it."
"Yes, Senator."
Marianne pauses, glances at me again, softer this time. "I'll make sure you're taken care of," she promises quietly. As if I would ever trust her.
I don't answer. She leaves as efficiently as she arrived, the door closing behind her with another final click.
Dad exhales, runs a hand over his face, then finally sits across from me.
"All right," he tries his hardest to be calm and measured. But underneath it runs a current of calculation. "From the beginning."
I shake my head weakly. "I already told the police?—"
"I'm not the police," he interrupts. "And this is not a deposition."
I swallow hard.
"I need to know exactly what you saw," he explains more patiently than I would have thought him capable of. "What you heard. How many men? What they said. What they didn't say."
My hands start trembling again.
