“Ding-dong. Is the wicked bitch dead?”
I have to blink away my tears as the words come in and out of focus. My hands shake so hard that I can’t even manage to text anything coherent. Ducking inside my closet, I dial his number.
Without hesitation, he answers on the first ring, and it’s all I need.
The sound of his voice anchors me, and I manage to steady myself enough to explain what happened. To my surprise, I’m not the blubbering mess I thought I’d be.
I’m too angry.
Grabbing a sweatshirt off the nearest hanger, I open the closet and head over to the window, all too ready to climb out and down…when there’s a soft knock on the bedroom door.
“Ali?” The tentativeness in my sister’s voice tells me enough. Whether our father and Blythe gave her specifics or not, she knowssomethinghappened. “Dad said to be down in five.”
I don’t reply.
All I can do is stand there and seethe, listening to her footsteps retreat toward the stairs.
“Do you trust me?”Jase asks after a long minute.
There’s something conspiratorial in his tone. It’s the kind of mischief that would normally raise every red flag in the book. But tonight? It’s the sweetest thing I’ve heard. “To do what?”
A dark laugh.“Just let me work my magic, little Birdie.”
CHAPTER 12
VICTORIOUS
JUNE, 4 YEARS AGO
When I go downstairs,I’m not surprised to find Blythe’s arm looped with my sisters as she brings her over to who I can assume are Senator Walker and his wife.
“This is my stepdaughter, Vanessa,” she introduces, gushing and fawning over her, as usual. I’d like to blame it on the fact that she’s pissed at me when she waves a hand vaguely in my direction and simply says, “That’s Everett’s youngest.”
The words themselves and even the delivery aren’t mean. It’s the fact that it only dawns on me now…that’s how shealwaysintroduces me.
Blythe claims Vanessa as her own. But me? She verbally distances herself as much as she can.
I’m notherstepdaughter. Why would she want to be associated with gangly, little awkward me?
I only belong to my dad.
I get to stew on that little nugget for the next twenty minutes of our meal, because nobody so much as addresses me. All I do is sit there and pick at the quail legs and fig chutney. It’s not that I’m against eating meat, but after witnessing my uncle kill a family of quail and serve them to us when I was five, I’ve been forever scarred by this particular bird.
And Blythe knows this.
Yet, here they lay, covered in tamarind glaze.
It’s still the most pleasant part of the evening compared to listening to Blythe. She’s all too happy to flex her family’s political affiliations, and she would “love some insight” for my father’s possible aspirations.
Honestly, Dad looks nothing more than humored by the idea. Blythe, on the other hand, is as serious as a heart attack. And I can’t figure out why.
The only time Dad is ever passionate about politics is after he’s had a few beers when he’s hanging out with his friends. Never once has he endorsed a political figure or announced what party he supports.
Now, having witnessed the Grand High Witch without her mask, I can’t help the flood of information running through my mind.
The media only began gossiping about my dad possibly running for office coincidentallyafterBlythe brought it up to him. Seeing the show on display in front of me, I’d bet my left tit that she’s the one who started the rumor.
If that isn’t grating enough, I’m even less impressed by the dear ole Senator. At first, I thought maybe I was just prejudiced against him because of what Jase said. However, the longer I take in the finer details about Matthew Walker, the more he rubs me the wrong way.
