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Quickly, Maxwell has me out of the lobby and back in the car. This time, Nolan sits in the passenger seat, and they both discuss me like I’m not even here.
“Has she been like this the whole time?” Nolan asks, like he can’t believe how weak I am.
“Pretty much. She’s completely distraught. But can you blame her? She thought she was going to marry Waylon and spend the rest of her life with him. Cut her a break. No one reacts well in this situation.”
“Well, I need her to do a press conference soon,” Nolan says.
“Why? Waylon is dead. You don’t have a candidate to support anymore. Your job is done.”
“My
job is far from done,” Nolan says.
He’s heartless. I don’t know what Nolan has planned, but if I didn’t know that Langston killed Waylon, Nolan would be my number one suspect. He’s up to something—I just don’t have the energy to figure out what.
My eyes glaze over as Maxwell drives us away. Building after building passes by. Car after car. Tree after tree. None of it registers. I don’t even know where Nolan lives.
I see the city disappearing behind us, and yet, we keep driving.
The car slows as we turn down a car-lined suburban street. I don’t know how this is going to help keep me away from the press, but maybe that’s not the point. Maybe the point is to force me to talk to the media.
“Pull into the garage,” Nolan says.
I exhale a deep breath I’ve been holding since we turned down the cul-de-sac. I won’t have to talk to the press.
I don’t pay attention as Maxwell pulls the car into the garage. As soon as he parks, he’ll open my door and offer to carry me again, but I’m tired of being carried. I’m tired of relying on someone else. I know better than to trust another man.
As soon as Maxwell stops the car, I open my door and climb out. Nolan opens his door at the same time and walks toward the house door. I follow him inside.
“You okay?” Maxwell catches my arm just before I step inside.
I nod.
Reluctantly, Maxwell lets go of my arm, and I enter the house.
“I’m so sorry about your loss, Mrs. Brown,” a woman in a suit comes up to me and says.
I give her a tight nod as I push past her in the hallway and into the kitchen.
Big mistake.
A dozen eyes stare at me, and each pair begins to approach me.
“I just can’t believe he’s gone. You must be so devastated,” a woman in a black dress says, gripping my hands.
I stare down at where she’s touching my hand and pull my hands abruptly away before pushing past her.
“I’m Toby Cox, I was working on Mr. Brown’s campaign. I’m so sad he’s gone. Please, accept my condolences,” a man in suit pants and a buttoned-down white shirt with the sleeves rolled up says to me.
I frown at him with my eyes.
Then I let my daggers cut through everyone in the room, warning them to stay the fuck away from me. I’m hurting. I’m in pain. I’m in shock. I’m still reeling from the loss. And these people have the audacity to approach me, to speak to me.
I don’t even know these people. They worked with Waylon on his campaign or in his law office. We aren’t friends. We aren’t family.
I run out of the room. I don’t know where I’m supposed to be staying tonight, and since Nolan hasn’t escorted me to a room, I’ll take whatever room I want.
I reach the stairs and run up, all the time feeling odd stares from the room.
