Chapter 37
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
DAPHNE
Throngs of people shuffle into the stadium, many with American flags clutched in their hands, American flag hats—the brainwashed political zombies decked out in their finest red, white, and blue garb made in China.
Dad’s “Unite America” platform rings out through the crowd—of course, they’re the fanatical majority who treat him like he’s the goddamn pope.
He insisted on no single color in his campaign, instead mixing red, white, and blue at every opportunity.
From the patterned ties down to his red and blue socks, Dad’s platform brings together the torn-apart country.
And it’s the biggest load of bullshit I’ve ever seen him shovel.
I kind of wish Tristan were here with me. He’d point out the hypocrisy of it all with a joke and distract me from the stage fright that’s trailing me like a bad smell.
But I know he wouldn’t be allowed in view.
No, he’d be stuck in the crowd, probably sandwiched between an old woman in American flag earrings she bought at Hobby Lobby and some moron who believes that all of Europe would be speaking German if it hadn’t been for big bad America saving the day during World War Two.
Patriotic instrumental music hums through the speakers like dinner music at a wedding. The piano rendition of the Star Spangled Banner makes me want to puke, knowing the rally’s about to start.
I hate speaking in front of people—even with my words scripted.
“So, as soon as Ray Charles’ America the Beautiful fades, you step on stage.
Let the applause go on as long as you can.
” Dad’s aide lectures me with her nose nearly pressed into her iPad.
It’s almost as far up the tablet as it is up my Dad’s ass.
“Wave and smile. Your speech will already be on the teleprompter.”
“Got it.” If I say anything else, I might puke on her bespoke pantsuit. I shouldn’t have had that turkey sandwich from the catering table.
Dad lives for these moments. All I want to do is run offstage and hide.
As America the Beautiful ends, I step to the edge of the curtain. My hands are so clammy they’re damp as I run them along the bottom of my blue and red color block dress—one Mom said would slim me down as much as possible with my new Spanx.
I didn’t care enough to argue. This is the last favor I owe them, and I’ll do it with a smile and a falsely flattened stomach if it earns me my freedom.
As the song ends, I’m careful not to wobble as I step onto the stage.
The applause is deafening—and I’m not even the main act. All I can focus on is watching my face as I wave at the crowd and beeline to the podium.
“Good morning, Baltimore,” I announce, my voice echoing back at me even though the earplugs are blocking most of the noise. “Charm City, you’ve done it again. This is the largest turnout we’ve had so far in this election campaign. You’ve sold out Camden Yards.”
Applause thunders from the crowd.
“Not even the Orioles could do that this season.” Laughter echoes around the stadium. I don’t watch baseball, but at least I know the Orioles are the home team. “But this season is a new chapter of American history.”
The words slowly skim down my teleprompter like reading the intro to a Star Wars movie, though this feels more otherworldly.
“In a few minutes, the President of the United States will step onto this stage to speak to you all. Some of our brave servicemen, women, and veterans call him Commander-in-Chief.” More applause. Man, their hands are going to be sore later.
“Some of you may know him as Grover the Closer. He’s closed more foreign trade deals than any other president in the last thirty years.” Sketchy deals, but hey, it doesn’t stop the applause from rolling in.
“But I’ve always known him as Dad.” The applause softens now, and there goes the tug on the heartstrings.
“My dad’s always been more than a President to me,” I lie through my teeth.
“He’s been my hero. He taught me the value of the American family.
That hard work and perseverance will pay off, so long as you work towards a goal.
From his example, I learned how to have hope for a brighter future. ”
My future will be brighter when I’m far away from him, but my thoughts are drowned out by more applause.
“And I know, in his hands, the next four years will be bright for America.”
Music thumps through the speakers as Dad’s intro music begins.
“Ladies and gentlemen of Baltimore, I give you President Grover Fox, the future of America.”
My stomach sinks in relief as I take two steps back from the podium and Mom and Dad walk on stage, their hands clasped like a happily married couple, each of them waving their free hand and smiling a trained smile.
Watch your face.
I check my cheeks and tug them up before any of the cameras capture my error.
Dad pulls his classic gesture of lifting Mom’s hand to his lips and kisses her knuckles before he releases her so she can take her place behind him—where she belongs in his eyes.
But Dad pivots to me with that fake smile and opens his arms.
I return his hug as his beefy hand pats me on the shoulder. “You should have cried for the cameras.”
“Sorry, Dad.” Affection falters in my chest like a dying butterfly.
I step aside so I’m standing by Mom, a few feet away from Dad, and to the right so the cameras get a clear glimpse of the three of us—America’s First Family.
Mom’s eyes are hard like diamonds, but the rest of her body is poised and regal—the picture-perfect First Lady. Even Jackie Kennedy would envy my mother.
Dad raises both hands to silence the crowd, but they continue cheering. He beams them a million-dollar smile and waves until they settle down.
“Thank you, Baltimore.”
The thunderous applause shakes the stadium. I swear, an earthquake could happen, and I wouldn’t feel it. Granted, in these heels, I can’t feel anything below my ankles but stabbing pain and regret, but they were Mom’s choice—and I won’t turn down a free pair of Jimmy Choos.
“God bless America.” Dad places his hand over his heart with a gleam in his eyes. “As a veteran, I was proud to serve my country. But now, seeing this incredible crowd tonight, I’m humbled to have been a part of the history that shapes our great nation.”
As Dad launches into his speech, the crowd hushes, clinging to his every word like he’s some sort of messiah ready to save them from taxes and inflation.
“We are a strong nation. Our forefathers built this radical democracy, and for over two hundred and fifty years, it has flourished.”
I’m pretty sure the Greeks built democracy, but okay, Dad.
“Baltimore, tonight, I make a promise to you. A solemn vow.” Dad turns to Mom with a wistful glint in his eyes. “One as dear to my heart as the one I made to my wife, Grace, thirty years ago.”
Mom beams at him, and maybe at some point, there was real love between them. Not strategies and ploys. Their marriage has always been a chess match—gaming and strong-arming the other with shame or embarrassment if they ever stepped out of line.
As Dad faces the crowd again, I swear I hear Mom sigh with relief now that his gaze is off her.
“If elected for four more years, I will bring back the jobs you so unfairly lost from the previous administration. Their rules are expiring, and I have great plans in store for—”
Pop!
Dad wobbles, his body twists towards us as he falters sideways. A rivulet of red trickles down from his forehead, his eyes wide in shock. He collapses behind the podium before screams echo around the stadium.
Was… was that…
Men and women in black suits surround me like a shield, hands grabbing and forcing me away. Through the lines of black pant legs, Dad’s limp body stays still, crimson liquid pooling around his head.
No. No, that can’t be blood. It can’t—
Mom’s shriek breaks through me, and icy realization cracks like shattered glass.
“Grover!” Mom’s voice is pure pain as she screams his name.
From behind her own cluster of agents, Mom’s perfectly manicured hand reaches out for Dad, but we’re carted off.
Hands grab my arms, my back, my head, shoving me down into a near fetal position while we scurry behind the curtain in one direction, down a winding maze of halls where Mom’s cries of anguish echo, reverberating until it’s a ringing in my ears I can’t escape.
“Flamingo and Finch secured. I repeat, Flamingo and Finch secured,” one agent announces into an earpiece, and they all break apart and shove me into a lounge with no windows.
Mom follows a few moments later, wobbling as she tries to keep herself upright.
“Mommy?” The childhood name for her bursts from my lips.
But she doesn’t look at me. Her nails rake over her chest as her eyes pinch together. Her lips open before she releases a cry of agony, like someone’s ripped her heart from her chest.
“Grover.” Her voice breaks on Dad’s name.
My vision blurs, and I wipe away the tears. I walk over to her as she kneels down on the floor like she’s no longer capable of standing. I crouch down in my heels, my hand resting on her shoulder.
She slaps it away.
Then retreats back into herself and cries.
“It was a single shot, ma’am. The coroner will have a report ready by the end of the week.” Wilson, the head of Dad’s security, glances down at Mom. His dark skin crinkles ever so slightly around his lips towards a frown, but that’s all the expression he shows.
She’s slumped but sitting on the couch, tears silently rolling down her makeup-smeared cheeks. Beige and black and pink all smudge in splotchy patches, and for the first time, I’m seeing Mom without a mask. This is the real Grace Fox.
“Did you catch them?” I ask from a stiff plastic chair in the corner—as far away as I can be to give her space. The Secret Service wouldn’t let us leave the room. I know Mom doesn’t want to look at me.
Is it because of my existence, or because I’ve always resembled him? When I was a kid, I loved having the same shade of blue eyes as Dad. Paige’s were a murky brown like Mom’s, and she tried to tease me over the color of my eyes—but even as a kid, I knew she was jealous.
“The suspect’s still at large,” Wilson says. “We have several leads, and the Vice President has authorized a search. We’re working with local police as well.”
“Where are our phones?” I ask. Part of me wants to see the news headlines, though I’m terrified of the images that might be posted online. What if someone has a picture of Dad getting shot? Not after his speech, not him collapsing, but the actual bullet ripping through his skull.
But I need to talk to Tristan. Does he know? Has he heard the news?
And my stomach rolls, asking the question I don’t think I want the answer to.
Did he kill Dad?