“Why don’t we get started on the other guy?” I offered, nodding toward the next room.
“No.” He shook his head. “We’re done for today.” He ran a hand down his face. “You take out whatever the hell you’re dealing with on a few punching bags before you come help me again.”
“Fine.”
“Get out of here.”
I walked out, got back into my car, and sat there for a second gripping the wheel. My pulse thumped in my temple.
I didn’t want to sit still.
So I drove.
The congestion was lighter than usual, but traffic in Manhattan never truly let up. Taxis honked. Pedestrians weaved through moving cars. Steam billowed from manholes, looking ghostly in the late September air. The heat had finally broken, and the city was slipping into fall. The leaves had started to change—red and orange against a backdrop of glass, steel, and brick.
I’d noticed it on my walks around the city. Walks that always, somehow, took me past Broderick Lane.
I’d seen Mia through the window a couple of times. Just glimpses. Nothing more.
On the days I saw her, I felt a little better. Lighter.
But it never lasted. A few more days would pass, and the gray would seep back in, heavier and darker than before.
Thirty minutes later, I was in the elevator, heading up to my penthouse. Inside, I kicked off my shoes, fell onto the living room sofa, and flicked on the TV.
Jurassic Park. A rerun ofThe Office. And then—her.
I set the remote down and leaned back against the cushions.
She was on TV a lot. Interviews. Rallies. Some ribbon-cutting ceremony or another.
For everyone else watching, Mia was a side character given a few minutes to say her piece before the cameras zoomed back in on her father.
But for me? She was the star of the fucking show.
Today, it was a rally at Washington Square Park.
The crowd was massive. Mia stood onstage behind her father, hands linked in front of her, poised and polished as always.
It took me a few seconds to notice something was off.
I braced my elbows on my knees and leaned toward the TV, narrowing my eyes.
Her skin looked ashy. Her smile wasn’t quite right. Strained. Like she had to work extra hard to keep it there.
She lifted a hand and pressed her fingers to her temple.
A bad, bad feeling crawled up my spine.
She swayed.
I shot to my feet, watching as one of her father’s aides stepped up to her. He caught her elbow to steady her. My relief at him being close enough to help clashed with the violent urge to snap his fingers just for touching her.
He leaned in and whispered something into her ear as he led her off the stage. She didn’t say anything. She just gave the smallest of nods and leaned on him for support.
The crowd barely reacted. They were too focused on her father, hanging on whatever empty words he was feeding them.
I stared at the TV, waiting to see if the camera would pan to where she’d walked off to.
