LOSS
Chris
Iguess I’m not the only one she keeps on his toes,” Whitmore snorts as I watch the cabin door fall closed. She still lets emotion override training.
To my surprise, he repeats the question about her well-being.
“She’s safe,” I answer. “Will she be safe when she’s back with you?”
“Of course,” he says, as if offended by the suggestion it could be otherwise. “I’m her father.”
“How about Gabe?” I let the name hang between us. “Will she be safe with Gabe, or will she end up the same way your wife did?” My words are careful.
Whitmore inhales sharply, the tension audible through the line. “You do not know what you are talking about,” he snaps.
“I think I do,” I say. A car honks in the background. “You’re out of office range. Intentionally, I assume. The Board can’t hear this, right?”
No answer comes for a beat. The silence is a plain kind of reply. The bluff held. Cash was right.
“Convince me she’s safer with you than with me. Convince me there’s a life waiting for her that is worth returning to, one where she’s more than a political asset.”
“Who do you think you are?” he booms. “I do not answer to you—”
“Let me change your mind on this, Mr. Whitmore. I have the files. The ones with redactions and the ones without. We both know what would happen if those files went public. Don’t make me prove it.”
Whitmore exhales, his voice smoothing into a practiced calm. “What do you want? More money?”
“No,” I state flatly. “I want Sara as far away from you, and from Gabe, as possible. She goes to boarding school as you planned. After graduation, you’ll make sure she gets into the college she chooses, and you’ll pay.
My records stay where they are. Should I have reason to doubt any of this, the files will leak and you’ll never see your daughter again. Do you understand?”
He has the audacity to laugh. “And how do you think you’ll get Sara to comply?”
“I have my ways, Mr. Whitmore. Now tell me,” I stress every syllable, “do you understand?”
A long pause follows.
“Yes. I understand.”
Although I’m not sure whether he even has the power to make demands of that Board, we set the rendezvous point at the factory.
The same one where all of this began, where I accepted the offer.
It’s off the main roads, easy to reach, and easier to escape from if things go sideways.
If they do, I’ll get Sara out, even if it means I have to erase them all.
One last night together is all we have, and I’ll make it count. Tomorrow morning, we leave.
It won’t be easy. None of this is. But it’s for the best, her best. Once she’s home, I’ll find Cash and make him understand, one way or another, until he eventually lets her go.
She’s going to break when she learns what really happened, when she realizes what she needs to do now. But she’ll survive it. More than that, she’ll master it.
The living room is empty, so I head for the kitchen.
The second the door swings open, the air rushes from my lungs.
She’s there at the table. Eyes wide, tears streaming, one hand clamped over her mouth, a scream trapped behind her fingers.
Her mother’s file lies open on the table, a wound that won’t close.
Fuck.
She stares at me in disbelief, her walls already up. “Did you know about this all along?” Her voice cracks.
“Sara,” I begin, but she cuts me off.
“Did you?” She rises, fists clenched at her sides.
“No, I didn’t.” I doubt she believes me. “Cash got intel because we wanted to help you find out if it was an accident or not.”
“Help me without telling me?” she interrupts again.
“It’s not like that.”
“Not like what?” Her voice rises, carrying a dangerous clarity. “Not like both of you fucking me? Then handing me to my mom’s killer and cashing the check?”
Her scream ricochets through the room, trembling with rage and heartbreak.
I move closer, wanting to hold her, to get her to see the truth. She flinches and backs away, loathing flashing in her eyes. The memory of the first day slams into me. She hates me all over again.
I force myself to stop, hands lowered, palms up, a gesture meant to soothe. “Please, let me explain.” My voice comes out ragged, almost a plea.
Tears streak her face, her shoulders shake. She taps the photo with her nail. Once. Twice. “I don’t trust you.”
The words strike deep.
“I get that, but please, sit down and let me explain. Afterward, if you want me to stay away from you, I will. I promise.”
She waits until I sit on the far side of the table before she lowers herself into the opposite chair. She drags it back farther than needed, widening the gap by a few inches, as if some extra space might keep her from harm.
I tell her about the Board, and why we believe they killed her mother. Her father’s role in all of this, and the plan of taking her home.
She doesn’t react. Doesn’t blink. Her eyes stay locked on the picture of Gabe holding the gun that ended her mother’s life.
When I finish, dead calm fills the room.
Her knee bounces under the table, faster, harder, until it stops all at once. Decision made.
She finally looks at me.
For a long, unbearable moment, neither of us speaks. The air is thick, ready to collapse.
Her voice cuts through it. “After I go home, I never want to see you again. Both of you.”
Something inside just... shuts.
I sit pinned in place, the distance between us more final than any wall.
I’ve lost her.
Swallowing hard, I nod. She exits the kitchen, and with every retreating step the pain in my chest grows heavier. The room is off-balance. I’ve miscalculated, and I can’t correct my mistake. Is this what loss does to you? I don’t know how to fight this.
I try to distract myself from these emotions.
I clear the table, scrub the counters, and deep clean the kitchen until everything gleams. Then I head outside and chop wood even though we won’t need it.
My eyes constantly drift to the bedroom window, hoping for a glimpse of her, but she never appears.
She doesn’t come down for dinner either, and I run out of ways to avoid going upstairs and forcing another conversation.
It’s better this way. I have always known it. I should never have let things go this far. Now I pay the price. We all do.
Stopping Cash is the next problem. He won’t let her go simply because she’s decided to end this. He will take the choice away from her, and I can’t let that happen.
I set a plate in the fridge in case she’s hungry later and light a fire in the living room. The television plays election coverage. Polling stations are closed, results are coming in, and there is little doubt about who won. A speech has already been announced.
It’s dark outside by the time she finally comes down. I ask if she is all right, but she ignores my question and sits at the far end of the couch, as far from me as possible. She doesn’t even spare me a look. I might as well be invisible. It’s déjà vu.
Her eyes are swollen, her skin pale. I would give anything to hold her through the night one last time. But I respect her decision. There’s no path forward with us in it. She would never have a family. Ending this is the right thing to do.
“He won,” she whispers when her father steps onto the podium, blue tie knotted neatly, an American flag pin gleaming on his lapel. Perfect posture. Practiced smile. The lights of the cameras glint off his graying hair and sharp cheekbones.
He looks exactly as he does in every photo I’ve come across, only colder and more preserved than alive.
“Thank you,” he begins, his tone practiced, trained to soothe and convince. “To the voters of this great state, I thank you for your trust. For believing in the vision we have built together.”
Standard boilerplate. Unity. Strength. Progress.
Sara doesn’t blink.
“We have big plans ahead,” he continues. “Economic growth, public safety, revitalizing key infrastructure. We are going to build a stronger, safer, more prosperous fut—”
A sudden jolt. His body buckles and goes down. For one heartbeat the world is silent. Then a violent crack reaches us. A gunshot.
I swivel my head to check on her. Her lips part, but no sound comes out. Her entire body freezes, locked in shock, as her father remains motionless on the floor.
Chaos erupts. A woman in heels climbs off the stage while security swarms it from both sides, barking orders. Screams rise as the audience flees, stumbling over chairs, dropping red and blue flags in their hurry to get out.
The cameras cut out, leaving two stunned anchors staring at each other. For a long moment they’re at a loss, then they compose themselves and promise their viewers more updates after the break.
“That cannot happen.” Sara’s voice trembles. “That cannot happen,” she repeats, as if saying it twice might undo it. “There’s no way I can lose him like that. This isn’t fair.”
Her wide eyes find mine. She’s about to collapse. I move over fast, pulling her into my arms. At first, she stiffens. Then she breaks, burying her face against my neck, sobs tearing out of her.
The television blares on, indifferent to the incident.
A commercial jingle, a celebrity showing off jeans, laughter spilling from speakers too bright, too loud.
Sara flinches at the sound, as though every noise is another insult.
A world selling denim and soda while hers crumbles for the second time.
When the anchors return, their faces are grave.
The woman struggles to keep her composure.
Her co-host takes over. “Unconfirmed reports from law enforcement sources indicate that Governor-elect Whitmore has succumbed to injuries sustained in a rifle attack. The scene is evacuated, the shooter remains unidentified. Police are questioning witnesses but have not yet released a formal statement. A press conference is scheduled for tomorrow morning.”
Sara turns to stone in my arms. She shoves me back, her hands slamming against my chest. Her eyes are wild, shining through her tears. “Do you have anything to do with this?”
“No. Of course not. I would never do that to you.”
Her breath comes in quick, uneven bursts. “And Cash? Would he? Is that why he disappeared?”
I hesitate. Images of Cash flash through my mind. Pictures of him recklessly interrogating potential terrorists. How he lost himself in the bloodlust. How he killed even after he got the answers. For one terrible second, I see his finger on the trigger.
“I don’t know,” I tell her honestly.
The question gnaws at me. If Cash didn’t do it, then who did?