AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Hiding my disgust, I give the PR representative a subtle smile as I show her my badge.
“Good evening, Miss Jones. It’s a pleasure to have you here tonight,” the young woman says.
“It’s a pleasure to be here,” I promptly reply.
“I didn’t think The Chronicle was sending anyone over tonight,” she says. My fake press ID states that I’m a field reporter for The Concord Chronicle, so I’m playing my part. “They weren’t exactly Mr. David’s biggest fan when he first won the mayor’s seat.”
“They’ve come around since,” I reply. “You know, up-and-coming politician, fresh blood. That’s bound to raise some eyebrows until they see him soaring through the ranks.”
“He’s headed all the way to the top,” the PR representative quips, practically glowing.
Her excitement brings a ball of acrid nausea up to my throat, but I can’t break down now. Not yet, anyway. I swallow it all back and mirror her expression, forcing myself to carry the charade all the way through to the end. “I’m sure of it,” I tell her. “I suppose I have a seat assigned?”
“Yes, it’s written right here,” she says and gives me my gala ticket.
I smile once more and go inside.
Behind me, the crowd swells at the base of the steps. The public is interested in this event and in being as close as possible to the many local and national celebrities attending tonight.
Actors, athletes, and TV personalities aplenty, along with the party’s most popular senators and representatives, some from New Hampshire but more than half coming from out of state. I see Washington faces everywhere around me.
Floral arrangements and marble statues occupy every corner, while plates are loaded with a variety of wonderful smelling hors d’oeuvres, and champagne glasses are distributed evenly among the swelling crowd by neatly dressed waiters. Somewhere on the eastern side of the hall, right next to the main stage, a band plays mellow jazz while the organizers of the event help people find their seats—of which there are about five hundred—evenly arranged in front of the stage.
“I hear he’s a party darling for that New Hampshire seat,” one man tells his wife.
“It’s the sympathy vote, I’m sure of it,” she scoffs.
I give them both a curious look, surprised that I actually recognize them. They are the Mannings from Rochester, New York. He’s a finance magnate, and she’s an uppity socialite who once reigned as the party queen of the Hamptons. Both of them are generous donors, likely drawn here by my father’s political potential.
“The man just buried his daughter, for Pete’s sake,” the wife adds. “Of course, he’s getting all the votes. People have a soft spot for tragedy.”
“Yeah. I mean, I don’t mind supporting the guy. His agenda sounds pretty straightforward,” Mr. Manning says. “Besides, the state senate needs some fresh blood. It’s practically a museum these days. Mummies everywhere.”
I’d laugh along with Mrs. Manning if I didn’t know the kind of man they’re supporting for that senate seat. I’ll take a roomful of mummies anytime over my own father, and that says something. Better the devil you know, or so they say, and I can’t believe I’m actually thinking that. Better the devil you know than your own father. Sheesh.
Slowly, I move forward, occasionally smiling and nodding at people before I take my seat at the front. Amstaff made sure I got the best seat in the house for this. I couldn’t be more grateful. Maybe when it’s all over, I’ll be able to let go of this unquenchable anger that I’ve been carrying around for so long.
Eventually, the guests for my father’s first fundraiser sit down, exchanging smiles and brief pleasantries, before his PR representative takes the stage.
Everything reverts to being mere background noise for me as my most intrusive thoughts take over. It’s mostly just me screaming on the inside as my gaze remains fixed on the left side of the stage. That’s where he’ll be coming from. But first, his PR rep has to give us a whole speech about what a wonderful man he is, about how grateful they are to have us here tonight, and so on. I’m already close to puking.
I tune her out altogether, fearful that I might actually vomit if I keep listening to what I know is a veritable crock of shit. My father didn’t do anything for this community, and anything he did do was purely for his own benefit.
Inadvertently, my head starts turning, ever so slowly, left and right. I’m scanning the seated crowd, once again wondering who’s who, wondering if I can identify the Black Hand folks by how much evil I see in their eyes.
That’s not a thing, unfortunately.
What is a thing, however, is about a dozen federal agents discreetly entering the hall, arrest warrants and badges at the ready as they scan the crowd. They’re in place, receiving instructions through discreet earpieces and promptly responding through the microphones in their sleeves once they have a visual on their targets.
My heart is now racing.
It’s about to go down. Perfect timing, too, as the PR rep is finally done kissing my father’s ass and proceeds to introduce him onstage.
“Without further ado, please welcome the man of the hour, the hero of our hearts, Mayor Henry David! And, with a little bit of luck along with your support, our future state senator!”
The crowd rises to their feet, clapping and cheering with bright eyes and even brighter smiles as my father walks onto the stage. He looks dashing as ever, wearing a custom-tailored black suit with a burgundy tie and neatly combed hair. He smiles with intimidating confidence as he gets in front of the microphone and motions for everyone to sit down.
“Thank you, thank you all,” he says, his voice echoing across the hall. “It is truly an honor to be here tonight, to be able to …” He pauses and takes a deep, shuddering breath. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say there are tears in his eyes. “As you’re well aware, it’s been a tough year. Frankly, I wasn’t even sure I’d be doing this. After I buried my own daughter, I almost gave up on everything.”
