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Jacob Prince is also going to be okay, but… he caught it worse. He’s currently getting out of surgery, where they’re pulling the chunk of red-hot board room chair that hit him like a mortar out of his back.
I want to feel bad for the kid. I’m not a complete monster; Idofeel bad for him. But that good will is tempered by the last name Prince.
It’s tempered by the fact that at a certain point, you start disbelieving “chance” and stop wondering “what are the odds?” Because after a while, it stops being about chance and odds at all.
This wasn’t random. This wasn’t an accident.
This was an assassination attempt.
The device wired under the table was crude, the detectives have told us. But deadly effective nonetheless. A simple radio-signal trigger was wired up to a small incendiary charge—literally the engine propulsion component from a model rocket ship kit. But that was rigged up to a can of pressurized cleaner, to magnify the blast, as well as kerosene.
I’d love to say I’m shocked that a can of CleanWipe brand paint thinner was also found wired up to the device.
But I’m not.
At all.
“You don’t know this was about me,” she says quietly
No, little one, it was aboutme.
“Oliver must have enemies, too. Or Jacob, for that matter.”
I nod, because I don’t need or want her worried.
“Very true.”
Not that true. Oliver’s made enemies as much as any of us. But there’s business rivalries and bad blood, and then there’s trying to blow people up. And streaming service startups might break some eggs and burn a few bridges, but this is the fucking mafia, or Belfast in the seventies.
I glance down at her, reaching up to brush a strand of blonde from her cheek. She smiles softly, bringing her hand to mine, cupping it gently to her face. The feeling brings a surge of protective fierceness. But also, one of rage, and fury.
I will break someone for this.
“They said Jacob is going to be okay?”
“He is.”
Begrudgingly, in spite of the little fuck’s last name, I’ll give him his due credit. According to the police, most witnesses interviewed recall Jacob runningtowardsElla in the conference room as the spool of wiring was dropping.
The door opens, and her doctor, Dr. Pratcher, steps in. She smiles at the both of us.
“How are you feeling, Ella?”
She shrugs. “I’m fine. Just sore in a few spots.”
Dr. Pratcher nods, crossing to the bed and glancing at the chart in her hands.
“We’ve got a few more tests we’re waiting back on, but you seem to be doing fine. We’ll keep you overnight to monitor that head for any signs of a concussion—”
“She’ll be coming home tonight.”
Dr. Pratcher’s eyes drag sharply to mine.
“Mr. Ransom, I can’t approve of—”
“Is there anything else you’d need to monitor tonight?”
“Well,no, but protocol—”
