Page 77 of Because I Killed Him
Back on stage, the camera zooms in on Dad. His face, streaked with Reeve’s blue blood, is hard to look at, carved with a desperation so fierce it’s clear he’s driven by more than political loyalty.
My thoughts flash back to the photo in the Blue lounge: Dad and Reeve, arms slung over each other’s shoulders, grinning as if they had the world in their pockets. Now, that history between them reveals itself in the way Dad shields Reeve with his body, holding his hands steady even as they’re drenched in Reeve’s blood.
He’s not just protecting the president.
He’s protecting his friend.
The Coppers escort Dad and Reeve away behind a moving wall of bulletproof shields. The camera zooms out to reveal the aftermath. The ballroom is a wasteland of overturned chairs, shattered glass, and discarded stilettos. The scene lingers briefly, the destruction clashing with the opulence, before the screen cuts back to Bogart.
He’s still standing in the rose garden, but now Dad is beside him. I’m only half-aware of Edmund watching me as a tear drips from my chin onto my clenched hands. I’ve never felt a desire so strong as the one that hits me now. I wish I could be with Dad, hugging him and telling him how proud and grateful I am—despite the Bliss ban, despite everything it’s cost our family, and despite what it might cost us in the future.
I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand as Bogart interviews Dad about the assassination attempt, praising his courageous intervention that saved the president. Dad stands tall in his tailcoat tuxedo, looking put together except for a swollen welt on the side of his cheek. Bogart calls him the man who stood between Reeve and death. Dad downplays the credit, pointing instead to Winston Glass’s energy shield.
“Your dad?” Edmund asks, nodding toward the screen.
The question pulls me back to the hovercar and the cold press of leather against my back. “Yes,” I reply, not bothering to hide the pride in my voice.
Edmund watches the feed silently for a moment. His brows are slanted downward, narrowed in thought, as if he’s slotting this new variable into place and trying to predict the fallout.
“Your life’s going to be different now,” he tells me.
From the way he says it, I can’t tell whether he means for better or worse. I’m about to ask when I notice his eyes drift from my face down to my chest.
I know what he’s searching for. My fingers brush the bruised skinbeneath the fabric of my gown where my energy shield used to be. I mentioned the shield when I told Edmund about Irene’s attack. He hadn’t seemed interested then, at least not the way he is now.
And he’s not the only one.
By morning, half the Civilized World will be scrambling to get their hands on Winston Glass’s shields. What happened tonight is history, rewritten in real time and broadcast live into every home. The defense technology no one thought possible has finally become a reality.
For decades, our brightest minds tried and failed to develop personal energy shields. They were just theories, a whisper of possibility locked behind layers of impossible science. But from adaptive sensing to live calibration, Winston Glass managed to break through every barrier. He was already respected for inventing the Bond, but this achievement will immortalize him.
“I don’t have the shield anymore,” I say. “I lent it to a Copper.”
“Lent it?” Edmund smiles to himself, and I know he thinks it was stupid to let the shield out of my sight. Maybe it was. But I don’t regret helping Sergeant Croft.
“Yes.Lentit.”
“Well, I hope you weren’t too attached. The Copper’s probably already got it listed for a fortune. Hell, maybe I’ll take it off his hands myself.”
It’s possible. But Sergeant Croft struck me as one of the good ones. Even if I’m not sure he’ll give it back, I want to believe he will.
When Edmund switches off the television, I forget all about the shield. The screen goes dark, taking the rose garden, Bogart, and, worst of all, Dad with it. It’s a cruel reminder that I’m not with him and that we’re fighting on entirely different battlefields.
I turn my head enough to view Edmund’s profile, dimming as the electric blue light fades from his left eye. “Please, Mr. Prew. I wish to finish the interview.”
“Bogart’s gonna rerun it all week.”
The hovercar veers smoothly inland. Through the window, the ocean line falls away behind us. In its place, the manicured lawns and iron-crowned hedgerows of campus rise. We’re still ten minutes from the dormitories, plenty of time to hear the rest of Dad’s interview.
But Edmund holds the line.
“The Coppers will pay you a visit,” he says. “Tomorrow. Maybe tonight.”
His voice is so casual, so matter-of-fact, that it takes me a moment to grasp what he means. “For a witness statement?”
“Yeah. But that’s just the start. There will be a trial, Miss Waldsten.”
A trial.The word falls like a gavel, and suddenly his slight lean toward niceness makes sense.
