Chapter 6 JENNA
Later that night…
The world keeps tilting. Every time the limo hits a bump, pain explodes somewhere new: my ribs, my ankle, my head.
I'm wrapped in a blanket that smells old and has stains on it that no amount of Clorox will ever get out.
There's still blood on my hands. Dried now.
Dark. I keep rubbing at it like it might come off if I try hard enough.
Dad sits across from me, his jaw clenched, his phone pressed to his ear until the moment the door shuts and the car pulls away from the police station.
Then he rounds on me. "What the fuck were you thinking, Jenna?"
I stare at him. The words don't land right away. They bounce around in my skull, looking for somewhere to stick.
"The police?" he snaps. "Are you out of your mind?"
I laugh. It comes out wrong, too high, too loud, almost hysterical. "Oh—oh geez, Dad, I don't know," I choke. "Maybe because my husband and my son were kidnapped?"
His eyes flick, sharp. Calculating.
"Lower your voice."
My son.
"Amauri," I sob, folding in on myself as the name tears out of my chest. "They took Amauri."
My body shakes violently now. I can't stop it. Every breath hurts. Every movement sends cactus spines deeper into my skin. Tiny needles still prick my arms, my legs, my scalp. I must look insane, bloody, torn, feral.
"They told me I had to go to the hospital," I manage between gasps. "They said—said my head—"
"You're not going to the hospital," Dad says flatly. "Not yet."
I stare at him again.
"Not yet?" My voice cracks. "Dad, I was beaten. I fell—I rolled down a—"
"I know," he says. "And it's unfortunate. But right now, a hospital creates records. Records create questions."
"My son is gone," I scream. "What questions could possibly be worse than that?"
He exhales slowly, the way he does before a press conference.
"Jenna," his voice softens, which is worse. "Tell me exactly what happened. Who did this?"
"I don't know," I cry. "I don't know who did this or why. They just came in. Guns. They killed Jason. They took Carter. They took Amauri. I fought—I tried—I—"
My hands shake uncontrollably. I hold them up like proof.
"They dragged him away," I whisper. "He was screaming for me. Dad, he was screaming for me."
Silence fills the car, thick and suffocating.
Finally, Dad speaks. "This was not random." I look at him, wild-eyed. Of course, this wasn't random! "I mean politically," he clarifies.
That word hits harder than any blow.
"They knew where you lived," he continues. "They knew who to take. They didn't kill you."
"They tried," I choke.
"But they didn't," he doubles down. "Which means you were part of the objective."
I stare at him, horrified.
"What does that even mean?"
"It means," his fingers rub his chin carefully, "that this was about leverage."
My chest tightens until I can barely breathe.
"Who would do this?" I whisper. "Why?"
He doesn't answer right away. Outside the tinted windows, Las Vegas blurs past, neon and darkness and distance.
"Jenna," he says finally, "you need to understand something."
I look at him, my father, the man who taught me how narratives work, how truths are shaped, how damage is controlled.
"This does not go public," he decides firmly. "Not yet. Not the way you think. You do not speak to anyone without me. You do not post anything. You do not make pleas."
"My son is missing," I scream. "What am I supposed to do?"
"You're supposed to let me handle it," he replies calmly.
The limo turns onto his street. His mansion looms ahead, gated and guarded, a fortress dressed up as safety. I curl inward, shaking, blood and cactus spines and terror pressed into my skin.
"They called the cops," I whisper again, like it's a crime. "The neighbors called the cops."
The limo pulls up at the grand entrance, and Dad shoots me his keep your mouth shut look, one I know all too well. Silently, I follow him up the large marble stairs to the big iron gate-like doors. They pull open as if by invisible hands, but it's only Jeffrey, one of Dad's servants.
"Sir," he nods at Dad. "Lady Jenna."
Lady Jenna! He's always called me that, like I'm some kind of nobility. He was imported from England to serve Dad's ego. I'm not in the mood, but I force a tired smile at him, "Jeffrey."
He looks like he wants to say something, but Dad pulls me straight into his office.
The scent of leather, wood polish, and something sharper and cleaner meant to signal control envelopes me, bringing up memories, none of them good.
I pull the blanket I have still wrapped around me tighter, unfeeling of its roughness.
The door shuts behind us with a heavy click that feels final, like the world outside has been sealed off.
Spent, I sink onto the edge of one of the chairs, my legs finally giving out.
The pain catches up all at once; my ankle is throbbing, my ribs are screaming, and dried blood clings to my skin when I move.
Hundreds, no thousands of sharp, spikey cactus spines are embedded seemingly in every part of my skin and scalp.
Dad doesn't sit. He goes straight to his desk, already reaching for the phone.
"Marianne," he orders when the line connects to his live-in assistant. "I need you in here. Now."
It's the middle of the night, or early in the morning, however you want to look at it, and he has no regard for waking his assistant.
He doesn't even wait for a response before hanging up.
I hug myself. My teeth are chattering, even though I'm not cold.
Without a word, Dad pours two scotches and holds one out to me.
Numb, I chuck it down. Grateful for anything to distract me, even momentarily, from the pain in my heart.
Marianne Hale appears less than a minute later.
She must have been asleep—she's wearing a bathrobe, her hair hastily pulled back—but she still looks professional somehow.
Tablet already in hand. Bare feet silent on the hardwood.
When you are a live assistant with a sitting senator long enough, you learn not to ask why. Only how fast.
Her expression is carefully neutral until her eyes land on me. Then—just for a flicker—something human breaks through. "Jesus," she murmurs. "Jenna—"
"Focus," Dad snaps.
She straightens immediately.
"There's been an incident," he continues briskly. "Home invasion. One fatality. Two abductions. We are going to dictate the story on this."
"No," I croak. My voice sounds wrong, shredded. "No, I don't think so."
Dad finally looks at me. Really looks. Then he shakes his head once, decisive. "Find someone else to handle PR on this."
Marianne hesitates. "Sir—"
"She's in no condition," he cuts in. "And I won't have her anywhere near the press."
Marianne nods, already making notes. "Understood."
"Take care of the police," Dad continues. "Keep everything compartmentalized. And for fuck's sake, keep the press out of it."
"Yes, Senator."
Marianne pauses, glances at me again, softer this time. "I'll make sure you're taken care of," she promises quietly. As if I would ever trust her.
I don't answer. She leaves as efficiently as she arrived, the door closing behind her with another final click.
Dad exhales, runs a hand over his face, then finally sits across from me.
"All right," he tries his hardest to be calm and measured. But underneath it runs a current of calculation. "From the beginning."
I shake my head weakly. "I already told the police—"
"I'm not the police," he interrupts. "And this is not a deposition."
I swallow hard.
"I need to know exactly what you saw," he explains more patiently than I would have thought him capable of. "What you heard. How many men? What they said. What they didn't say."
My hands start trembling again.
"They killed Jason," I whisper. "He stepped in front of Amauri, and they just—shot him.
Like it was nothing." Dad doesn't react.
"They took Carter. They tipped his chair, dragged him—" I go on, even as my voice is breaking.
"Dad, they dragged Amauri. He was screaming.
For me. I fought them. I bit one of them.
I—I rolled down the hill. I thought I was going to die. "
I start crying again, ugly and unstoppable. Dad watches me with an intensity that feels like scrutiny, not comfort.
"Did they say any names?" he asks.
"No."
"Threats?"
"No."
"Demands?"
I shake my head. "I don't know, I couldn't understand them."
Silence stretches between us.
Finally, Dad leans back, steepling his fingers. "That's a problem."
My stomach drops. "What do you mean?"
"It means," he says, "that this isn't about money."
A chill crawls up my spine.
"Then what is it about?" I whisper.
Dad looks at me for a long moment. And for the first time since the limo, I see something like uncertainty flicker behind his eyes.
"That," he says slowly, "is what we're going to find out."
"I think they were speaking Spanish," I remember. Talking hurts. I must have hurt my throat pretty badly when I screamed Amauri's name.
Dad's eyes sharpen.
"There was a helicopter. They came with it." I recall the moment it took off. The moment my heart broke into a thousand pieces when I realized Amauri was on it.
That does it for him.
He pulls his phone out again, fingers moving fast, turning away from me as if I've ceased to exist.
"I need flight registers," he demands without greeting or apology to whoever is on the other end. "Private, charter, med-evac, everything. Radar readings too…" A pause, "No, do not flag it. And absolutely do not let this go public."
I push myself up from the chair, pain screaming in protest. "What does that mean? Dad?"
He lifts a hand without looking at me. Wait.
I don't.
"I'm right here," I cry. "They took my family. You don't get to shut me out."
He turns back to me at last, phone still in his hand.
"We need to establish patterns," he sounds like he's just trying to pacify me. "That's all."
"Patterns of what?" I demand. "Who would do this? Why?"