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Sut
ton stalked from the room. Her boots clacked against the marble, and her blackcoat swished around her ankles in her haste to leave.
Lila picked up what Sutton had left behind. The star pin was hardly larger than the tip of her finger, and still warm.
She slipped it into her pocket.
Dixon flashed his notepad. I approved of your speech. It’s a pity Senator Masson and his flunkies can’t see their own hypocrisy.
“It is what it is.”
It’s bullshit. This is why I don’t vote for the lowborn senate.
He fell into step behind her as they navigated the corridor, the faces of the senators falling after they realized that their gossip had been delayed for another day.
Much of the crowd had petered out by the time Lila and Dixon reached the exit. She had just stepped outside when a man grabbed her arm and tugged, walking her quickly down the sidewalk. Shiloh’s muscular form brooked no argument. She’d come along even if her younger brother had to toss her over his shoulder and ruin his impeccably brushed and styled hair.
Such a move was unlikely, though. It wouldn’t be civilized to carry her away. Shiloh wore the golden coat and breeches of a senate intern now.
“Shiloh, where are we going?”
Dixon followed along behind the pair, his hand upon a small bulge in his coat.
A switchblade, most likely.
“Take it down a notch, Dixon,” she whispered. “He’s my little brother. You’d both get along quite well, sitting in a room, not saying a word to one another.”
Shiloh frowned at that, barely pausing in their walk.
When they passed a café called Rosebuds, he cut quickly into the alley. Unlike most in New Bristol, it did not smell of piss and shit. Instead, Lila smelled stale food and week-old coffee grounds mixed with beer. It was likely the new spot this semester, that place where teenagers sipped booze away from prying eyes, feeling like rebels against their teachers.
Shiloh prodded her deeper into the alley. “He told me to fetch you. He’s waiting. He told me he’s going to fix everything, and you’ll be fine.”
“Who?”
Shiloh rolled his eyes with the irritation of younger siblings everywhere, and darted back out onto the sidewalk.
Lila circled the dumpster and came face to face with her father, a man in his fifties who still kept himself fit and trim in the gym. His gray hair hung to his shoulders, and his salt-and-pepper beard had been impeccably groomed. He had forgone the usual white coat and breeches of the prime minister, marking him as unaffiliated with any state or family. Instead, he wore a pair of dark trousers and a three-quarter-length navy coat.
Dixon eyed him with some annoyance.
Lemaire stared back with the same expression. “Is this our friend?”
Dixon gave him the finger. Loudly. With multiple exclamations marks.
Lila grabbed Dixon’s wrist and pushed it to his side once more, unsure if she wanted to correct either of them. Her father had always called Tristan their “friend” as a code, as a way to mark his distaste and not use his name in case they were recorded. He’d never enjoyed the fact that Lila had chosen to work with him. It turned out that her father had gotten his wish in the end, for Tristan would likely never work with her again, and he damn sure didn’t want to be her friend.
“He’s been friendly enough to offer a bit of moral support at my trial. What do you want?”
Her father straightened. “Do you think I wanted to stay away?”
Dixon nodded.
“If you’ll give us a moment, Mr. Friendly Enough, I’d like to speak to my daughter alone.”
“He knows already, Father, and he hasn’t ratted you out. I assume you were listening? I thought I saw a bug on Chief Shaw’s coat.”
Her father rubbed his chin, casting more than a few doubtful glances at Dixon. “Of course I was listening. I’ve spent an entire month listening in places I shouldn’t.”
