Page 72 of Blacklist

“Exactly,” he says triumphantly, and I realize that I’ve wandered into his trap without realizing it. This is why he wants to keep me about in Valmont. We’re safe in our little enclaves. It’s not that none of our neighbors or friends care what we do. It’s that we’ve all arranged to ignore each other’s sins in favor of protecting our own.

“You let Malcolm go to DC,” I point out.

“Malcolm needed to go for graduate school and his internship. He’s going to be in the Senate someday.”

“Maybe I’ll run for the Senate,” I say.

Both Malcolm and Daddy laugh. Ginny frowns but she doesn’t stick up for me. Feminism only goes so far with this family, and we both know it.

“There’s not enough room in the Senate for both of us,” Malcolm says as though this explains why that would be impossible. And if there’s only room for one, it’s going to be him.

“Oh, stop dicking around, it’s because I’m a girl,” I say.

“Language,” my father warns.

“That proves my point,” I say, shoving my plate to the middle of the table. The maid appears, avoiding all eye contact and removes my plate. No one says anything about how little I’ve eaten. No one cares. If someone doesn’t catch it and put it on the front page of the paper or on a news ticker, it doesn’t matter. That’s all this family is: photo ops and pretty filters. We keep all of the ugly behind closed doors.

“Since I have you all here,” Daddy says, ignoring my outburst, “there’s something we need to discuss.”

It’s downright democratic of him to pretend like any conversation we have as a family is a discussion. “Your mother’s headstone came, and we need to go see it as a family.”

“Of course, Angus,” Ginny murmurs, placing a hand over Malcolm’s. His gaze turns down as he studies his empty plate.

“Why do we have to go together?” I ask.

“It will be a good thing for us to be seen together as a united front,” he says, dropping his napkin on the table as though declaring this last bit is final.

“Oh my God,” I say, horrified, as I realize what he is up to. “You want it to be a photo op.”

“It’s important that the public sees how much her death is affecting our family.”

“Why?” I ask quietly. How can he cry for her one minute and use her like this in the next?

“You know why,” he says. “Our grief is a private affair.”

“Doesn’t sound like it,” I mutter.

He ignores me. “We owe it to the citizens of Tennessee to share our lives with them, but we have to be selective as to the moments that we share.”

“You just want them to see you as a grieving widower,” I accuse. Our eyes meet, neither of us flinches at the hatred glaring back from the other.

“I am a grieving widower, but I’m also a politician.”

I have a few other words to describe him. I consider hurling them like darts at him now.

Alcoholic. Con man. Murderer.

“You will be there,” he says. It’s as much an order as a threat. “They will see this family united in their grief.”

I get to my feet. It feels like the walls are closing in on me. They bear down until I’m sure I’ll be crushed. “You own the papers. Just tell them what you want them to print. But don’t make us lie.”

“Where’s the lie?”

“We’re not a family,” I say. “We’re liars. All of us—and you made us that way.”

I don’t wait for him to respond, although he yells at me as I flee the room. It doesn’t matter. I’ll go to my mother’s grave. I’ll suffer through another stolen moment. I’ll pretend that anything about the situation is normal. I’ll pretend that her death was an accident. I don’t have another choice. Not while I’m under this roof. Not while my father controls me.

And he controls all of us.