Page 76 of Because I Killed Him
He looks both relaxed and tense at the same time. One moment, his forehead is smooth; the next, the skin appears stiff. His mouth presses flat, then loosens. His fingers tighten on the armrest, grip it, then release, then grip again. He looks like a horse that’s spotted a weakness in its pen, nudging it, testing it, ready to batter it down and bolt, but not quite convinced it’s the right time.
Still, his breathing slows, as if something is rolling off his chest in heavy pieces.
Heavy as an engagement, maybe. A marriage he never wanted.
But I don’t ask.
I crack open the window, hoping the cold air will wash away the cologne. That scent, still unnamed, clings to my lungs like a fingerprint. I want it gone. I breathe deeper, until each inhale hurts a little less than the last.
The night’s horror is finally receding, tucked inside my mind like something half-asleep, but I know it’s still there. It’ll return, probably later tonight, as soon as I’m alone.
“How are you feeling?” Edmund asks as he syncs his Bond with the overhead holographic TV screen. His left eye flashes electric blue as he flips through channels, but I know he’s watching me, too.
The strange part is that it’s not with his usual condescension, as if I’m beneath him. No. This look is new. It’s still calculating, but more polite, almost attentive.
It makes my skin crawl.
This can’t be kindness, not from him. Even I know Edmund Prew doesn’t change without a reason.
“I’m in your entourage, Mr. Prew, and it’s your duty to ensure nothing bad happens to me. I’d say I’m feeling perfect.”
A small, amused smile. “Glad I could help… again.”
He flips past The Civilized Voice.
“Wait.” I lurch forward, nearly dropping the tube of rejuvenation cream. “Please. I wish to know if there is any news about my father.”
Edmund hesitates, then switches it back.
Benjamin Bogart’s striking face fills the screen, framed by rose bushes in full bloom. He stands outside the Golden Gate Manor, bathed in theamber glow of lampposts. Rose petals dance on the evening breeze, swirling upward before drifting away. The scene’s beauty is overshadowed by the cold gleam of his bulletproof purple suit.
“…that some are calling a miracle,” Bogart says, his voice edged with disbelief. “President Theodore Reeve was rushed to Pembroke Hospital, but his injuries are minor. Thanks to a daring intervention by a courageous low-citizen, the president is expected to make a swift recovery. We will speak with the low-citizen shortly, but first, let us revisit the moment that shook the nation.”
The screen transitions to a sweeping aerial shot of the ballroom at the Golden Gate Manor. Men and women in formal attire mingle and dance among gilded columns adorned with daisy bouquets. It’s a sea of tuxedos and silk, with high-citizens and low-citizens eating, drinking, talking, and simply existing in a world vastly different from mine, where the struggle for political power flavors the very air they breathe.
At the center of it all is President Reeve. His blue suit cuts a mighty figure, and his poise is as solid as a mast in a storm. The crowd applauds as he mounts a marble stage to speak before the opening waltz.
Near the podium, his chief of security, Rafe Hardy, observes the crowd with gruff intensity. He’s an enormous Green, with legs like tree trunks and a long scar across his dark-skinned cheek. Dad says Rafe has protected Reeve long before he became president, but in all that time, he’s only ever heard Rafe speak a few words.
To the left of the stage, a group of politicians who support the Bliss Prohibition Act watches with approval. Among them is Dad. His satin tuxedo blends into the crowd, but his posture is all sharp edges, as if he’s not here to socialize. His gaze flicks over Reeve now and then, stoic yet attentive.
Reeve speaks of unity, weaving a vision of high-citizens and low-citizens working together for the good of the Civilized World. Applause ripples through the room as he paints a picture of a stronger, fairer society. But when he mentions the Bliss Prohibition Act, the atmosphere seems to sour.
“With the ban in place,” Reeve continues, “we shall finally be a nation without a crutch, a nationwithout—”
A loud, jarring pop cuts through his words. The crowd gasps, then falls silent for a fraction of a second. Rafe Hardy moves, his hand twitching toward his pistol as his eyes scan the ballroom.
Another pop, louder this time.
The video slows, each frame lingering in agonizing detail. The first angle shows two plasma bullets carving through the air, leaving streaks of searing light. As they arc toward Reeve, the camera tracks their trajectory: two shots aimed directly at his forehead.
Then comes the flash.
Winston Glass’s shield, brilliant and impossible, erupts in a burst of light that engulfs Reeve in a protective wall of energy. The pulse is so powerful it knocks Rafe Hardy back, slamming him into the wall and dropping him to the floor. My heart thunders as I take in the sight. From this angle, the shield is overwhelming, as if Reeve stands at the center of the sun itself. The plasma bullets slam into the shield with relentless force, the first bullet disintegrating on impact. The shield pulses once, twice, then jagged cracks spread across its surface, and the shield shatters. The second bullet breaks through and grazes Reeve’s shoulder.
Chaos erupts so violently that I barely see the blur of motion slam into Reeve.Dad.Amazement and terror hit me at once as he tackles the president, driving him to the ground as a third shot cracks through the air. Dad’s arms lock around Reeve, twisting to shield him. Dad’s back forms a barrier, bracing for the bullet, but it speeds past and hits the wall behind them with a dull thud.
Pride burns through me, and I can barely see the rest of the footage through the hot tears in my eyes. Rafe Hardy staggers to his feet. Behind him, a wave of Coppers floods the stage, a thunder of boots and drawn weapons. As they form a barricade around the Reeve and Dad, the camera pans to the ballroom, where high-citizens and low-citizens alike scramble over each other in a frenzied stampede toward the exits. Screams slice the air, tangled with the shriek of alarms and the Coppers’ barked commands as they work to secure an escape route.
