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The man deflects. Brett pushes. Brett doesn’t have Henry’s charisma. More people are yelling. There are accusations now. April looks devastated.
“Why are they listening to those jerks?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer for a while. I suspect she’s actually on the verge of tears.
“There’s no more yes in the room,” she finally says. “Dartford & Sons are officially sinking the Ten.” She shuts her eyes. “These neighbors are going to get screwed. And it’s Henry’s birthday next week, and all he’ll get is the final dissolution…”
I’m not listening. Henry is looking over at me and Smuckers. I tilt my head, projecting sympathy, empathy. I see it right when it happens, when the Dartford guy traces the direction of his gaze.
“Oh, this is perfect,” the blowhardiest of them all says. “Is this the dog? The new owner of Locke Worldwide?”
“No, no, no, no,” April says under her breath. “Shit.”
The blowhard Dartford guy is pushing through the crowd toward me, brashly and angrily, bearing a microphone.
I clutch Smuckers tight, pulse roaring in my ears. What do you have to say for yourself, Vonda? Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, Vonda?
Everybody is looking at me now. My skin goes clammy. The hate is a hand, squeezing my lungs.
The Dartford guy stops in front of me with a smug expression. “Tell me,” he says, addressing the crowd, “can you trust a company led by a dog?” He turns to me. “You’re the dog’s keeper? Don’t you think this is a little reckless for a publicity stunt? To literally hand control of a company to a dog and his keeper? This dog legally controls the entire firm, does he not? This dog could sell the company for a dollar to a kid on the street. Is that a trustworthy move?”
He points the microphone at me, more formidable than a loaded gun.
I catch sight of Henry across the room, pushing through the people, trying to get to me. Rage in his eyes. He calls out, “Leave her alone.”
“You have anything to say for yourself?” Dartford asks.
I stare at the mic. So familiar. This is a place I never wanted to be. Never again.
Never again.
Henry comes across, pushing through, shaking his head. Keep quiet. Don’t say anything.
“Come on,” Dartford chides. He’s not looking at me, he’s looking at everyone else. Because I’m not human. I don’t have feelings. I’m Vonda.
I’m Vonda.
“The leader of the company has nothing to say?”
And right there, something kicks in. Something perverse.
Because I’m Vonda.
Without even thinking, I take the mic, hold it with a grip of steel. “Does the leader of the company have anything to say? You want to know? Well, how about it, Smuckers?”
I frown at Smuckers. Nod my head. “Oh, dear,” I say. I turn to Dartford. “Smuckers says he is so sick of your shit. He can’t even.”
The room quiets for the first time since I got there.
“Very amusing,” Dartford says, trying to take the microphone. I back away, daring him to go after a woman and a cute dog in front of all these people.
I nod as if Smuckers is talking and I’m listening. Out of the corner of my eye I see Henry’s warning face. I pause halfway up the aisle. “Smuckers here thought he was going to a nice community meeting where we talk about making a neighborhood nicer, but instead, it’s battle of the jerky titans. Please.”
There are more murmurs. Chuckles.
“Very funny.” The Dartford guy is coming for the mic.
I walk again. I feel Henry trying to catch my gaze, trying to shut me down. Too late.
