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“Who wants a racetrack in their neighborhood?” I ask.
“Nobody, but the Dartford brothers’ll bribe and lie their way into projects. They cross lines most people won’t.”
Sure enough, when we arrive at the community center, there’s a red truck with the words Dartford & Sons on the side of it.
I pull open the door and we enter a cool lobby with a lot of bulletin boards and stacked chairs all around. A hallway leads left and another leads right. Down to the right is where we hear the yelling.
We enter the meeting room, which turns out to be a small gymnasium packed with so many people that they can’t all fit on the chairs, so they crowd around the corners. We stand by the door, in the back of it all. I nestle Smuckers in my coat.
The people seem angry.
At Henry.
He’s in front of them, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. There’s a PowerPoint image—an architectural drawing, all sketchy and with watercolor touches—on the screen behind him.
I recognize it as the artist’s version of the Ten.
He’s talking about it. How they’re going to decontaminate the site. His vision for the walking bridge. Residences along the water. It’s kind of amazing to see him in “on” mode—passionate about what he loves. Full of fire, even in the storm.
He spots me through the crowd, settles his gaze on me, and I feel warm all the way through.
He starts strolling with the mic, being the master orator that he is, a super hot Julius Caesar. He moves around the edge of the crowd, eyes fixed on me, like we’re the only two people in the room.
Dizziness washes over me.
One of the angry neighbors gets up and starts criticizing how the walls go right to the sidewalk with no room for greenery.
Henry answers him, still coming at me. I straighten up, feeling like a virgin, bound and ready to be a sacrifice for the billionaire architect who can carve a griffin out of balsawood. Ready for him to ravage and tear me apart.
All in all, not a bad feeling.
He stops in front of me. My heart pounds. He lowers the microphone. Under his breath, he says, “Hi.”
I swallow, overwhelmed by the effect he has on me, by how much I missed him. “Hi,” I say.
He turns back to the room, addressing another objection, moving on like he’s all about their conversation, but he’s all about me. I know it when he stops, when he turns, eyes finding mine.
He defends the way the walls are, even though it’s not what he ever wanted. It’s Kaleb’s stupid design, but Henry will defend it.
More angry people raise their voices.
“Those guys are Dartford plants,” April whispers. “Planted in the audience to sink this project. They’ll complain about the amount of greenery, which always rallies people. And they’ll complain about the lack of public input—which they would actually get more of with Locke.”
People are talking angrily over each other, rousing each other into a frenzy.
I’m starting to feel lightheaded; this is exactly how it was when everyone hated me. So much anger. “This is bad,” I whisper.
“It is. Once those assholes have their no vote, they’ll bribe some council people and put their racetrack in. But we can’t say that, because it hasn’t happened yet. Once it’s done it’s too late. They have people, let’s just say.”
The two Dartford brothers start criticizing Locke for bulldozing their vision in, as if they’re the white knights, riding in to save the neighborhood. It’s all so wrong.
“Lies,” April whispers. “Their motto should be Where doing the wrong thing is the right thing.”
Everyone wants a turn to yell, just like the days when my name was a trending topic on Twitter. I rub my sweaty palms on my skirt, feeling the urge to bolt.
I’m not back in Deerville.
Smuckers gets antsy. I pull him out of the purse and hold him as Brett gets up onto the stage and confronts the man. “One question—are you being paid by Dartford & Sons?”
