By the time I’m done, Gul’s dark eyes are shining. She brushes her mussed hair behind her ears with trembling hands. “I swear I didn’t kill Professor Rook, or hire anyone to kill him. There wasn’t anything going on between us, and I definitely didn’t buy anything from him. If my father found out…” She shivers, whether from the cool air in the room or apprehension, I can’t tell.
Pulling the extra blanket up from the foot of the bed, I tuck it around her waist. “Look. I don’t want to push, but you’ve got to tell me why you were outside that night. What were you doing out there if you weren’t waiting for the professor?”
The girl in the bed looks so small as she chews on her lip, eyelashes fluttering as she cuts a gaze toward me. She focuses on her fingers as they wring the blanket in her lap. “I was on the phone with my mom, okay?” It’s a whispered admission.
My head cocks to one side. I don’t understand why it’s such a big deal, but by the heaving of her chest, I can tell it cost Gul to admit it to me. “Help me understand.”
She sighs. “I don’t like calling my mom from the dorm, okay? Because if I do, she’ll see how it is at school for me.”
“I’m still not following.”
“I don’t have any friends!” Gul’s voice breaks on her last word, and her eyes well.
I stare at her in shock. Speechless.
“There. Are you happy now? You can gloat over poor little me with no friends, while you have many.”
Finding my voice, I speak. “You sit at a table full of people every day. You’ve got a posse that follows you wherever you go. You have friends.”
Gul shakes her head, dropping the blanket from between hooked fingers. “I have minions. It’s not the same thing. You can bet that any one of them would spread a rumor about me without even blinking, if I ever so much as do something even remotely worth gossiping about. So I don’t.” She hesitates, and I get the sense that she wants to keep talking, so I remain quiet. Still.
After a few beats of silence, it’s apparent to me that whether she wants to or not, she’s not going to confide anything else to me. Instead, she plucks her phone off the tiny stand beside her bed and looks at it.
Disappointment curves around my throat at her silence, a not unwelcome surprise.
“Okay… What about the night Professor Rook was killed. You made the call to 911, but I can’t help but wonder if you saw more than you told the operator. Did you?”
Gul gasps. “Look.” Holding her phone out to me, she shows me a message.
Keep your mouth shut, or next time it’ll be fatal.
“What?” I screech. “Who is this from?”
I try to stop the shaking of my hands as I take the phone from her and examine the message. It’s anonymous, just like the last one. I have no way to trace it, but maybe the police will.
Feeling like a hypocrite, I urge her to go to the authorities.
She refuses. “If I say anything, they’ll kill me.”
“That’s exactly what they want you to think. They almost killed you anyway. You have to tell the police what you saw that night.”
Shaking her head, Gul shoves her phone behind her pillow, hiding it from sight. “Don’t you get it? I didn’t see anything. I don’t know who ran over Professor Rook. And now they’re hunting me for it.” Girding her expression, she locks her eyes on me. “You need to leave. I can’t be seen talking to you anymore. Not until this is over.”
I don’t argue. If she wants me to stay away until the investigation is over, I will. But I’m not going to stop looking into this.
“Glad you’re doing okay,” Ricardo says, patting the railing at the foot of Gul’s bed. “See you.” He follows me through the curtain and back to the waiting area, where Minister and Mrs. Abidi are huddled together on a couple of the green vinyl hospital chairs, whispering softly. Mrs. Abidi smiles when she sees us coming. “Thank you for coming to see Gul. I know it means a lot to her, to have good friends close by.”
I’m stunned and only manage a polite nod as Ricardo bids goodbye to the adults before ushering me outside. His hand swings mine confidently between us as we cross the parking lot to the car. He says something to me, but I miss it, unable to focus on anything outside the musings in my head.
Someone tried to frame me for attempted murder tonight, and I won’t stand for it. I’m going to find out who the bastard is, and I’m going to bury them.
30
The sky outside the floor-to-ceiling windows is the hazy periwinkle color of pre-dawn. A ribbon of dark pink limns the horizon, hinting at the profusion of color to come when the sun paints the morning sky.
Words from the conversation I had with my mom the night before circle through my mind. She’d been surprised when I asked her about the internship with Daddy’s office. Like she had no idea I was even interested in politics. Hadn’t she noticed how informed I am? How at every event I bust my butt connecting with as many officials and dignitaries as I can, keeping myself informed of current events in other countries and how they pertain to politics here in the U.S.?
Apparently not.
When I asked her what my chances were of getting the internship, she’d laughed. Told me that I was welcome to apply, that the senator would award the internship to whichever student showed the most potential.
I’d been sorely tempted to hint that a little good old-fashioned nepotism wasn’t such a bad thing, but I hadn’t. It would be so easy to ask Daddy to simply give me the internship, but then I wouldn’t appreciate it. Would resent it, in fact. Because then I wouldn’t have earned it, wouldn’t have proved myself worthwhile to him, and wasn’t that the whole point? To prove to my stepfather that I’m worthy of his time investment, his backing in the political sphere? And maybe even outside it?
Guilt presses against my lower back, urging me to run faster. The soles of my athletic shoes slap against the treadmill in the otherwise silent fitness center.
I shouldn’t have talked Ricardo out of going to Haiti with his mom. If he has the chance to rebuild his relationship with her, to start fresh… He should take it, regardless of what that means for us.
The weighty truth of it hits me in the gut, making my steps falter and the toe of my shoe skid on the treadmill. A tiny cry escapes my lips as my balance swings forward, pitching me face-first into the path of the conveyor beneath my feet. I catch the rim of the control panel at the last second, blinking, my heart throbbing. My feet take up the pace of the treadmill as I right my body. I was this close to giving myself the rug burn to end all rug burns.
And the night before a big campaign event too.
“Are you in need of assistance, Miss Cavendish-holt?”
“I’m fine, Steve. Thanks.”
Slapping the off button, I climb down from the treadmill and wipe away the sweat that’s beading on my temples. “I’m done for tonight. You ready?”
He nods, following me along the hallway, which is shrouded in soft, early morning light. The dormitory is quiet as I ascend the stairs, grateful that most of my classmates are late risers. These early morning hours when I’m up finishing my schoolwork or exercising are some of the only ones I get during which someone doesn’t expect anything of me. Want anything from me. It’s the only freedom I get, which is why I sacrifice that extra hour of sleep to the blasted beeping of my alarm clock.