Jazz drops the bag. “Fuck, Tiana.” Her composure slips. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
I wish I could explain, but my throat is too dry to speak.
“Water,” I rasp. “Please.”
“Shit. Sorry.” She grabs a cup from the nightstand and holds the straw against my lips. “Of course.”
I manage to take a few sips. Water has never tasted so good.
She clutches the cup between her hands. “How do you feel?”
“Not great,” I say honestly.
“The doctor—” Her voice wobbles. She clears her throat and tries again. “The doctor said the damage is extensive, but it will heal.”
I don’t meet her eyes. I can’t. I’m too ashamed of what happened, of what my father did.
My gaze lands on the news broadcast. What captures my attention isn’t the car lying on its roof, consumed by flames. It’s the name of my father that rolls in a caption over the bottom of the screen.
CEO of Teszner Agglomerate and ten people killed in an explosion earlier tonight.
I blink. I must be hallucinating. It’s probably the meds.
“Tiana?” Jazz asks uncertainly. When she follows my gaze, she clamps a hand over her mouth and mutters behind it, “Dear God.”
The sirens of police cars, firetrucks, and ambulances turn around and around on the scene, throwing red and blue light into the night.
Jazz grabs the remote and turns up the sound.
The camera turns away from the flames, zooming in on a news anchor huddled in a coat with a beanie pulled low over her head.
“Pawel Teszner was estimated to be worth billions, which made him one of the wealthiest men in the country. Speculation is that the motive for the attack is crime related. His son, Leander Teszner, refused to comment.”
Footage of Leander leaving our apartment building comes onto the screen. He’s dressed in the cashmere coat and leather gloves my mom gave him for Christmas. A scarf is wound around his neck.
Reporters storm at him, shouting questions, and cameras flash in his drawn face. My father’s men clear a path for my brother as he fights his way through the throng of people to a car parked on the curb, repeatedly saying, “No comment.”
The camera cuts back to the news anchor. “So far, no one has taken responsibility for the attack.”
“Dear God,” Jazz whispers again, her face ashen and her wide gaze glued to the television.
A news presenter comes on, sitting behind a pristine white desk and dressed in an equally white designer dress. A video recording of firefighters dousing the flames plays out on a big screen behind her while a small square pops up in the corner with real-time footage of the anchor.
The presenter flashes a row of straight white teeth that’s as perfect as her styled hair and flawless make-up. “Our anchor, Charlotte Davis, is at the scene. Charlotte, we understand that the explosion could’ve been caused by a rocket.”
“What the…?” Jazz mumbles, her features frozen in a look of horror.
The beep in the room picks up its pace as the facts sink in.
“Yes, Alicia,” the anchor says. “A group of adolescents who were camping nearby said they heard a noise and saw a blaze that looked like the tail of rocket. A second later, the vehicle in the middle of the three-car convoy exploded. Both cars at the front and back were impacted. The ATF hasn’t confirmed the cause of the explosion yet.”
The presenter folds her manicured hands on the desk. “What about the other casualties?” She checks a piece of paper that lies in front of her. “An early police report says the attack claimed eleven victims.”
“That’s right, Alicia. The victims have been identified.” The anchor looks me straight in the eyes as she continues. “Mr. Teszner was traveling with nine bodyguards and his wife.”
My ears start ringing. My head buzzes. I swear there’s only cottonwool where my brain is supposed to be in my skull.
Jazz looks at me quickly, her blue eyes round.
