Page 164 of Be With Me
I’d never been more desperate to trade places with anyone. They had what I longed for—freedom and the ability to reach out to the world beyond. My palms pressed against the cool glass, my breath fogging up the surface.
Just then, a wispy tendril of a memory appeared at the edge of my awareness.
The news of the explosion hadn't triggered my loss of consciousness.
Neither had my father finding out about Romolo and me.
Something else had done it. Something so outlandish that it seemed utterly impossible.
Just before I'd passed out, I’d wondered if my dad had anticipated the explosion.
My spine straightened.
How else would he have known to post guards at the campaign office? Why else would he and Jenny have followed me when I fled the party?
It was like they were waiting—waiting to see how I’d react. To see if I'd be upset. If I'd panic.
If I'd immediately try to contact the man I loved.
I began to pace.
Romolo’s words echoed in my mind.“My mother suspects your father has a secret backer, someone with a vendetta against us who’s pushing him to go after us aggressively.”
At the time, I’d dismissed it. But now? Now, I wasn’t so sure.
What if my dadwasworking with someone who hated the Ferraros?
Hated them enough to plant a bomb?
My stomach dipped.
I’d met most of the people who'd donated large sums to the campaign—or at least, I thought I had. But my father could have taken money from someone in secret. It’s not like I had access to his financial records. I wouldn’t know.
My dad isn’t capable of that.
That’s what I would have thought if I wasn’t currently being held prisoner in his own home.
No, I was done being naïve. Done jumping blindly to his defense.
If the Ferraros were right about my dad, I wanted to know. I deserved the truth about who I’d been helping all this time. What was I complicit in?
I bit on my nail. Would he lie straight to my face if I asked him directly?
Yeah. Possibly.
But it was worth a try.
My gaze swept the room. It was a small, sparse space—one bed, an armchair, and a desk. I opened the drawers, rifling through remnants of my childhood: colored pencils, erasers, old notebooks. The bottom drawer was a chaotic mess of cords, toys, and forgotten objects. I sifted through it, untangling wires and brushing off dust. And then I found it—a voice recorder.
I remembered using it years ago during long walks in Central Park, recording ideas for outfits or creative projects.
It didn’t turn on, so I swapped out the batteries. The red light blinked to life.
A breath escaped my lungs. This would work.
I didn’t know if Dad would tell me his secrets. But if he did, I’d be ready.
* * *
