Page 5 of Devil’s Promise

That’s the thing about being silent. People forget about you and they say all sorts of things in front of you they might not otherwise have shared.

The number of secrets I’ve collected in the last year are shocking. I know the dirt on every major politician in the tri-state area and half the criminals they regularly interact with.

One of the side effects of the shock therapy is short-term memory loss, at least for some patients.

My memory is totally fine, but I think the idea that I won’t remember has given Dick and my father even more license to speak freely.

Too bad for them, it’s just armed me with more information. Not that I know how to use it yet. I could go to the press, share what I know. But that kind of article is just as likely to be buried as it is to be published. And then I will have shown my hand.

My father grabs my upper arm, yanking me along with him, as he heads for the back door. Thankfully, my participation is not required for the debate tonight, I only needed to be here for the photo session that happened before the speeches.

I look like my mother. Blonde hair, blue eyes, very all American, I’ve been told. When I was little, everyone said we were the picture-perfect family, and that might be the only thing that is really true about us. We looked good in a photograph.

Normally, my father would stop in his dressing room, have a drink before we left, listen to his campaign staff tell him how amazingly eloquent he’d just been.

But not today.

Today we head straight out the back door and into the waiting black sedan.

I look at my father, my brow knitted with confusion.

He ignores me and opens the door, pushing me inside.

I go, folding myself into the car as I smooth out my dress. If we’re headed to another function, it had best not be wrinkled.

Silence is my one rebellion, in all other ways, I conform. If I don’t, like I said, he’d just force me to comply in the most humiliating way possible.

He moves around the car and gets in the other side, Dick closing the door behind him.

Sometimes I have a notebook or a phone that I ask questions with, but I’ve got neither today, and my father doesn’t volunteer any information.

Not that he reads my notes anyway. Which means I sit myself back, content to find out where we’re going when we get there.

But as we drive, I note the changing streets, a bit of apprehension moving down my spine. We’re headed for East Harlem.

Are we going to fetch Albert?

It’s not an errand my father normally takes me on…

But we drive past 129th, the neighborhood getting increasingly rundown, the buildings old and tired, with chipped paint and dirty stone.

Homeless walk the streets, pushing their carts or carrying their bags.

I shiver, sinking down into the bench seat of the car.

My father gives a derisive snort. “Don’t like what you see? Better get used to it.”

I turn to him, my eyes wide, the question I won’t ask shining in them.

“It’s your rule.” He looks back at me, his eyes hard, his lips pulled in a sneer. “But if you don’t ask, I’m not going to tell.”

My lips press tighter together. This is another punishment. For today? It feels much bigger than that.

I press my hands together, my chin dipping so that all I can see is my lap. Watching the scenery isn’t going to help me.

Instead, I focus on my breathing. In. Out. Nice and slow. I’ve survived a lot of pain this way.

I can do it again…whatever it is.