Page 4 of Booked for Kidnapping

Talking had helped, too. More than I thought it could when my shrinks, a married couple who took turns with me, had suggested I go make friends with Bradley’s baby.

I’d been able to sneak over and visit the red beauty of an old car and give it a pat on the hood without falling to pieces. When certain no one could catch me, I’d thanked it for having been built strong enough to save our lives, too. Ren had been my only accomplice for that effort, and he’d displayed the patience of a saint while I’d worked through my various emotions.

Piece by piece, I took back my life, returning to the ivory tower I’d left behind.

“It would be beneficial for my team to see the full consequences of such a crash. It’s been a while,” President Castillo stated with pride in his voice. “They’ve done excellent work with security, and we haven’t lost an agent during my entire presidency.”

That did impress me, as the President of the United States was a prime target of terrorism and assassination. What sort of men and women did the Secret Service employ not to have a single death in so many years? I suspected the man lied to me, as I couldn’t imagine such a dangerous job having zero casualties over such a long period of time. Rather than accuse the man of bullshitting me, I replied, “If they want to see such consequences, I can get copies of the crash pictures and my medical record.”

Everyone had tried to convince me to look over the files and the photographs, but I’d declined. I already remembered more than I wanted, which complicated my life, and I held no doubt some of the photographs included a battered, bruised, and bloodied Bradley. I’d dedicated that part of my life to making sure I never witnessed him even bruised.

One day, when I could afford to fall apart, I would take another walk down memory lane, but until I finished what I set out to do, I would continue to keep my memories of the crash locked away—or as locked away as I could.

No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t forget Bradley’s desperation when he’d realized he would walk away and I would likely die.

I forced my thoughts back to the situation at hand. Before I gave the government anything, I would remove the more confidential bits, including intel on my spleen transplant and the injuries to my lungs. They’d get everything I had on my foot, including the damage done during the senator’s assassination.

President Castillo reached into his coat, pulled out a business card and a pen, and jotted down several phone numbers with names and instructions. “I look forward to hearing from you, Miss Asurella.”

I retrieved my wallet from my purse and tucked his card inside. “Thank you, Mr. President.”

“Now, I’ll take my leave. I’m expected to sit on the other side of the aisle.” The President of the United States rose from his seat and nodded to the man he’d evicted. “Senator.”

“Mr. President,” he replied.

“Do try to stay civil. This is a memorial.”

The senator grimaced. “Understood, Mr. President.”

I read between the lines, identifying that the man seated beside me had some form of prejudice known to create trouble for President Castillo, and I fit the bill for his bad behavior in some fashion or another. Either he disliked younger women or exsanguinators. Either would create extra problems for me. Rather than create trouble for the sake of creating trouble, I took a picture of him and waited for the service to begin.

The service took almost two hours, and the campaign went to extremes trying to prove their fallen senator had been a shining example of morality in a dark world. They dug through the worst trenches of society in an effort to paint her as a radiant being above all others. Some in the crowd mourned, but most watched with an unnerving calm, analyzing every word the campaign manager said, who handled the transitions between guest speakers. Most in the front row spoke, including President Castillo, leaving me as an honorable mention.

I suspected the lack of a ramp had something to do with having escaped being forced to talk to a crowd of politicians and campaign supporters.

The instant the ceremony and final prayers concluded, the crowd murmured, and within five minutes, the place reminded me of a crowd leaving a concert, boisterous and ready for a night on the town despite it being in the early afternoon. As I loathed the idea of trying to navigate through the masses in my wheelchair, I held off leaving, checking my phone for any news.

The local media fixated on the service, and I wrinkled my nose at my presence in more than a few photos. There was even one of me chatting with President Castillo. Fortunately for my peace of mind, all the pictures depicted me as being polite and interested in what the man said, although none of them captured me smiling.

I could live with neutral and serious rather than dour or cranky.

I gave it twenty minutes before I dove headlong into the cranky territory, especially when I went home to a mess.

Thanks to the ongoing disagreement with my family and friends, Bradley had my cat. Until one of us bent, he’d continue to be the caretaker of my fluffy goddess. Ajani would make me pay for my absence, too.

I missed my fluffy ball of terror, which only made the realities of my life even worse.

Before I could spiral down to the dark depths of general despair, one of the older white men opted to sit beside me. I recognized him from the countless meetings with the fledgling cell as Representative Kennedys, the author of the bill destined to create upheaval and countless deaths. “Quite the service,” he said in a pleasant tone, and I could understand how he captured the attention of his constituents. What looked pleasant must be pleasant in the eyes of many, and he took care with his appearances along with his voice. “I hope you are feeling better.”

Interesting. As the first to inquire on my health, he won points playing the social game, although I knew better than to be charmed by his easy smile, voice, and the illusion of kindness he presented.

Men like him wanted people like me to disappear. Permanently.

“I am. Thank you for asking.” To play along, I sighed and regarded my booted foot with a scowl. “I might escape this thing one day.”

“I heard that the bullet damaged your already injured foot.”

“That’s true. It did. It made a mess of the work that had already been done to it. I got lucky. If things keep going well, I might be able to walk again.” I already could in a fashion, but it involved crutches, as the infection made the whole damned thing hurt enough I had cried the first and last time I’d tried. Rather than walk to exercise my lungs, I lifted weights until I gasped for air.