Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
TRISTAN
Tristan
I don’t know if I need to state the obvious, but leave this phone off and hidden. Don’t ever take it out of your house.
Daphne
I can’t do this.
Tristan
You have to do this, Princess.
Daphne
Stop calling me Princess!
Tristan
If the crown fits, wear it
Daphne
You’re the most insufferable terrorist I’ve ever met.
Tristan
Terrorist? You wound me.
Daphne
It’s just a flesh wound.
Tristan
Please update your pop culture references.
Daphne
Bite me.
Tristan
Name a time and place, and I’ll happily oblige, Mike Tyson.
I bet that made you blush.
I can see that you’ve read these…
Poor little nepo-baby must be scratching her brain, wondering how I know, but now isn’t the time to give in to temptation and keep texting her. I need to move.
Not having my phone for the next few hours is going to be a bitch, but it’s not the first time I’ve gone hours without connection.
My charged backup burner is in the glovebox in case there’s an emergency.
I have Tuck and Tessa’s numbers memorized if something goes down, but with my main phone on and Netflix playing House on loop, it’ll be easy enough to track that I’m at home technologically.
Checking my disguise in my hallway mirror, I adjust the bald cap with a wig glued over the top.
I’ve gone from a full head of dark hair to near-balding with a comb-over.
My nose is wide, and the glasses make me look like a middle-aged Harry Potter.
The forgettable black catering uniform matches the ones I cross-referenced on Google images and the caterer’s website: basic black button-up shirt, black pants, black sneakers that are a size too large, and coated along the bottom with putty to disguise any marks.
I’m as ready as I’m going to be.
Grabbing the specially-altered EpiPen from the desk—all thanks to Tuck and his uncanny ability to get drugs from the hospital’s pharmacy without getting caught—I head out in a freshly wrapped car, one disguised as an old Toyota.
A car aficionado might notice that my car doesn’t perfectly match a Camry, but for the average person—and average cop—a ten-year-old sedan blends in without notice.
After over an hour of driving, I’m pulling up at the end of the street where McMansions dot along the road. I stride with purpose towards the house sprinkled with Secret Servicemen in black suits and earpieces straight out of an action movie.
My heart thuds harder as one of them waves a hand to me. “Sir, your ID.”
I dig into my wallet as I tell him I’m with the catering staff. And as far as their list goes, I am. With Tessa’s help, we hacked into their vendor list and included my alias among the catering staff.
“Ronald Greenwood.” The man in black checks my ID against his list and gives me a curt nod to let me pass.
Funny how murder is never the hard part. It’s always sneaking past the guards that’s the scary bit.
Soft pop music floats through the house from the backyard. Their neighbors must be loving this. The backyard shares fences with three other houses, and one of them is low enough to jump when everyone’s running around trying to figure out what’s happening to the Congressman.
Dodging people dressed in suits and cocktail dresses, I blend in as much as possible with the furniture. Luckily, no one here pays attention to us servants at these events.
Is Daphne like that? The thought of her treating me—and the staff—like peasants unsettles my stomach. She was born into this silver-spoon world, so I wouldn’t be surprised if she treated me like furniture today.
Shaking my head to dislodge the thought, I set my plan into motion. There’s one crucial element I need to place.
The EpiPen.
Sneaking upstairs, I hurry to the master bedroom and ensuite.
Luckily, the pictures on the real estate website were recent; the McArthurs only bought this house three years ago.
Enough to do some simple renovations, but not enough to dramatically alter the structure with any ghastly extensions. It’s outlined exactly like I’d planned.
Opening the medicine cabinet, I see it. An EpiPen, the box clearly marked with Jerry McArthur’s name.
Using a neatly folded washcloth, I run it along my altered EpiPen to remove fingerprints and swap the medical devices.
Dashing out of the ensuite and master bedroom, I go back downstairs before I’m spotted.
The caterers hustle around as they arrange mini quiches on a tray. Tugging on a pair of white catering gloves, I slip into the kitchen without any notice. As one tray finishes, I grab it before another staff member enters. I stroll away from the party and into the empty dining room.
Pulling out a vile of peanut oil from my pocket, I pipe out several drops on the top of each glistening quiche before heading out.
The sun warms my face. Grass and something fruity linger in the air, tinged with the buttery sweetness from cake frosting.
There’s a sea of pink and blue outfits, decorations, and a garish three-tier cake that’s taller than any wedding cake I’ve seen in person.
Granted, I haven’t been to many weddings.
Working random jobs throughout my twenties to put my siblings through school meant I had no time for friends after high school.
It wasn’t until after Tessa dropped out that I knew I couldn’t make ends meet anymore on my own.
I sold half my Bitcoin and became an overnight millionaire.
Tessa’s always been a computer whiz, but she learned to hack not long after I made my fortune.
I think between my money and seeing where Tuck’s future was heading, she wanted to catch up.
She’s never really explained why she started hacking into billionaires’ accounts and playing Robin Hood, but I respect her privacy. And her skills.
I guess one upside is not having to attend gender reveals. I can’t believe this entire party is to let the world know what genitals the McArthur’s grandchild has. Gender reveals are so fucking weird.
My eyes land on a curtain of blond hair being gently tossed in the breeze. Daphne’s sapphire dress hugs her luscious curves, her ass straining the fabric.
Bite me.
Oh, I know exactly where I’d like to bite first.
“What are these?” A demanding voice drills into my ear.
“Quiche,” I answer with a fake smile I’d perfected while working retail.
With a satisfied “hmph,” Senator Troy plucks one from the tray and takes a cocktail napkin.
I need to get these to McArthur before they disappear.
I beeline towards the opposite end of the party, dodging people, glancing curiously at my tray before stopping in front of him and Judge Menendez.
“Quiche?” I offer up the tray. Both men look at the food and pluck a quiche from the tray before grabbing napkins.
“But George knows not to put it on the books. Yacht trips aren’t something I think need to be disclosed,” McArthur says.
“Well, I’m not your counsel,” the judge says. “But I agree with the sentiment.”
I circle the yard to distribute quiche bites that disappear within a minute. As Daphne plucks the last one from the tray, her eyes check me for a lingering moment.
Does she recognize me?
But she turns back to Senator Mump’s daughter as they continue chatting about some reality TV show.
My tray is empty, and I have one more thing to stage before I disappear. I drop off the empty tray in the kitchen to be filled again.
I head back upstairs and into the Congressman’s study.
The mahogany desk glistens in the afternoon sunlight, streaking through the sheer mossy curtains. Pristine and ancient—a work of art undeserving of the son-of-a-bitch. Did his pedo-ring friends pay for his desk too, or just his silence?
Reaching behind me, I untuck my catering shirt and tug out the papers pressed to my back.
Peeling open the Ziploc bag, I carefully pull out the printed Bradshaw Bill and place it on the desk. The only alteration is the phrase, “kill the bill,” scribbled in threatening-looking red Sharpie. Jamming the empty bag into my pocket, I pull out the peanut oil.
“Help!” Someone calls from outside.
Shit, I need to hurry.
I douse the bill in oil before slipping the container back in my pocket.
And finally, the vial of gunpowder. I line black powder across the desk and sprinkle some on top of the bill—my signature.
Footsteps pound upstairs towards the master ensuite. A minute later, they dart back downstairs. Someone grabbed the EpiPen.
I linger a few seconds before leaving. Everyone is crowded around outside, even the Secret Service, who were previously stationed by the front door. It’s practically a gift. Easier than the escape I originally planned, jumping the backyard fence.
Taking my opportunity, I run to my car and drive the hell out of there.
Twenty minutes later, after taking winding back roads and some dirt roads, the car bumps over goat tracks and onto someone’s farm.
Opening the trunk, I change out the license plates. I plaster on a few bumper stickers, including one in support of Fox’s reelection. Would Daphne find that amusing?
Hopefully, she’s not too scared right now, and she kept her mouth shut.
I’ve orchestrated this so there’s no way anything could be traced back to me unless she confesses to the burner phone.
But not disclosing a kidnapping or a known assassination attempt would make her a co-conspirator.
And with her exposure around lawyers on the Hill, she knows exactly what sort of trouble awaits her if she admits anything.
Yanking off the fake nose, wig, and bald cap, I strip out of the catering uniform. I keep the shoes on so I don’t leave any traceable tracks in the dirt. I pull out my metal bucket and dump everything inside, making sure it’s only surrounded by dirt and nothing that could catch fire.
Dousing my disguise in lighter fluid, I strike a match, and the evidence goes up in smoke.
I hightail it out of there before the farmer finds me.
It takes three hours, but the car’s vinyl is stripped, and it’s back to its factory-painted black.
I’ll puncture two of the tires tomorrow and drop it off at a mom-and-pop tire store a few hours away.
I’ll pay them to swap out all four tires so no one can match any treads or find any dirt from the scene on the new tires.
Cops will be scouring the entire DMV for a balding man in a white Toyota Camry with size twelve sneakers and the most generic Michelin tires they make.
If they ended up here, they’d meet a man with dark hair, a black Toyota registered in his name, and a closet of size eleven sneakers who spent the day binge-watching House.
Turning on my burner phone, I see two missed texts from Daphne.
Daphne
I’m home. It’s over. Spoke to the cops and said nothing.
Call me? Please?