Page 11 of Because I Killed Him
“Fifty-two percent of the public supports keeping Bliss legal,” Hillaire points out. “If you do this, you’ll be labeled an enemy of democracy.”
“And from there, you’ll become a target,” I add.
“No, I won’t,” Dad insists.
“How are you so sure?”
His hesitation is so brief it’s almost imperceptible. “Because as rotten as our system is, we’ve still got the rule of law.”
Mom, silent until now, moves behind him and whispers in his ear. Her dark eyebrows furrow sharply, forming the same focused expression she wears when she offers him advice. As his public relations manager, she controls his political image. It’s not an easy job because Dad struggles to control his temper even more than I do, but so far she’s managed to keep his reputation intact.
Dad squeezes Mom’s hand and nods as if her words reassure him, then downs the rest of his scotch in one gulp.
“As long as you’re feeling undemocratic, you should ban tobacco and alcohol while you’re at it,” Hillaire suggests, her thin lips curling.
He grunts. “I’m trying to ban what’s dangerous, Hillaire, not what’s fun.”
“When do you leave?” Vivian cuts in.
“I need to be airborne in the next twenty minutes.”
“But I’m supposed to use your plane tonight,” I protest.
“Harry’s flying to Roaring Rails Station, too,” Vivian says. “I’m sure he won’t mind if Lore joins.”
“Good. Arrange it,” Dad orders.
He kisses Mom goodbye, then leaves the dining hall and gestures for me to follow. We walk through the house in silence, a heavy tension still hanging between us. When we step onto the portico, I shiver at the deepening chill in the air.
A Pinkie hands Dad his leather briefcase. He opens it and pulls out a wooden box with green trim.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“A goodbye gift. Go ahead and open it.”
The box unlocks with a tiny golden key. Inside, nestled against dark velvet, is a sparkling bronze brooch shaped like my favorite flower: a daffodil.
“I made it myself.” Dad lifts his chin proudly. “There’s even a camera inside.”
At first, I think he’s joking. Dad knows nothing about casting or forging; the idea of him making jewelry is like a bulldog learning to sew. Then I notice the inscription etched along the stem—To Bruce Waldsten, with highest honors—and my breath catches.
“Really, Dad? You made it with your Grandmaster graduation medal?”
He shrugs. “It was just a hunk of bronze.”
“Not to me, it wasn’t.”
“I know. Why do you think I’m giving it to you?”
He takes the brooch and pins it beneath the collar of my dress. For a moment, his large, rough hands, still scarred and calloused, feel like the protective ones that once shielded me from a world I was too young to understand. Now I realize I’ll miss them more than anyone else’s. “I love it,” I whisper, my voice thickening. “Thank you.”
Dad pulls me close, holding me so tightly I wonder if he thinks this might be the last time. The wind blows around us, but in his arms, the cold feels distant.
“I know the odds are stacked against us, Loredana,” he says, his voice a soft rumble against my ear. “I know life as a Public Person, especially at Grandmaster, won’t always be cut-and-dry. But will you promise me one thing?”
“What?”
“Promise me you won’t tellanyoneabout your weapons restriction.”
