Page 83 of Because I Killed Him
When the hovercar stops at a curb near the entrance, I text Dad:“Can you talk tonight?”
Four days have passed since the assassination attempt on President Reeve, and aside from telling Dad about Irene’s attack, we’ve barely exchanged more than a few hurried words. His schedule has been a whirlwind of interviews, calls, meetings, and events. With his name on everyone’s lips, he’s being pulled in a hundred directions. Even a family group call hasn’t made the cut.
“Can’t tonight, honey,”Dad replies.“Got the press conference.”
“Right. I forgot,”I text as a sinking feeling settles in.
The press conference, a joint event with President Reeve and Winston Glass, marks Winston’s first public appearance in ten years. The official focus is on how Winston’s energy shield saved Reeve’s life, but Dad claims Winston’s real goal is to quash the frenzy surrounding the shields. Demand is soaring despite limited supply. Due to their glaring flaws, the shields are still years away from hitting the market.
For now, I’m one of the few people who have one… or at least I was. Sergeant Croft still hasn’t returned my shield, and at this point, I’m starting to think Edmund might’ve been right. Croft is either keeping the shield for himself or has already sold it for a fortune. After everything he did to help me, I don’t regret lending it to him, but I do regret being so careless. I should’ve found a way to make sure I got it back.
The hovercar door swings open, and the rich scent of chocolate wafts into the cabin. Dickie clambers in, trailed by his Pinkie chaperone, then sprawls across the seat beside me. One hand holds a half-empty mug of hot cocoa, while the other grips his prized carbon-fiber airplane, its wing bent at an odd angle.
“I need help,” Dickie declares, tossing the damaged toy at Jack.
Jack snatches the plane from the air and inspects the break. “What happened this time?”
“Nothing I can be blamed for. I rolled over on it in my sleep.”
“Why can’t you fix it yourself?” Charlotte interjects. “I thought you were supposed to be smart.”
Dickie shrugs, wiping his chocolate-smeared hand across the seat upholstery. “I’m smart where it counts, broad. You, on the other hand… if I put your brain in a bird, the bird would fly backwar—”
A hard look from Jack silences him.
“The bird wouldwhat?” Charlotte bristles.
“Forget it.” Dickie props his feet on the seat across from him. “Not worth it today. Not on a Thursday.”
“What’s special about Thursdays?” I ask.
Rather than answer, Dickie sips loudly from his hot chocolate. Jack, meanwhile, pulls a repair kit from his pocket and begins smoothing the plane’s bent wing. Charlotte shoots me a look, half annoyance, half exasperation, then slumps back into her seat.
The hovercar coasts toward the Blue Dormitory, where the tiered streets are jammed with traffic. Hovercars inch forward in congested aerial lanes, their shiny exteriors reflecting curious looks from students lingering on the sidewalks below. Ahead, the dormitory is locked down. Copper hovercars patrol the perimeter, and above, two helicopters drone in slow circles, their mounted lasers scanning the rooftops.
Somewhere inside, eighteen Blue students are confined to their suites under house arrest until their trials begin. No one knows how long it will take—weeks, months, maybe longer. Dad once said that politics can slow justice to a crawl. The Coppers, the media, and even the judges are hyper-focused on the Blues involved in the attempt on Reeve’s life. The rest of the trials are on the back burner until the high-profile one concludes.
Edmund’s hovercar parks as close as the barricades allow. We step into the charged atmosphere and head toward the dormitory entrance, where armed Coppers stand guard. After a quick flash of our entourage badges, we’re waved through.
Inside, the elevator takes us to Edmund’s floor. The doors open onto a long corridor lined with gold sconces, as quiet as a blackout. The only signs of life are the Coppers stationed outside the suites of the arrested Blue students.
Irene Hussey’s suite is one of them.
Every night since her arrest, I go to sleep convinced I’ll wake to news that she’s been released and the charges dropped. Just another high-citizenscandal swept away before the sun blinks over the horizon.
But somehow, she’s still locked up.
I picture her now, pacing the luxurious confines of her suite, shackled by an ankle monitor. She’s prohibited from attending classes in person and is reduced to staring at her Bond screen, connected to the outside world through pixelated walls.
I don’t pity her.
Months from now, when the Blues who tried to kill Reeve are convicted and executed, Irene’s trial will finally take place. And I’ll be there, called to testify against her and her group of friends.
Inside Edmund’s suite, we wait in the foyer. We’re expected to gather here each morning at 6:55 a.m., five minutes before the execution begins. Edmund, Jack, and Dickie always skip out, but Charlotte and I are forced to watch.
Edmund appears on the dot, framed in the doorway with two Pinkies beside him. One fastens his Altimor pocket watch to his vest, while the other secures his scabbard. He draws his saber halfway to check its balance, then slides it back. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a handkerchief. As he wipes the back of his neck, his jaw tightens and his fingers shudder against the cloth.
“Good morning,” I say.
