Page 155 of The Americana Playbook

I almost fall down. “What? What did you say?”

“The moment you started acting out at school, Mr. Foller suggested we look into alternative treatment for you. He had previous students who had success in the program. But your father”—Mom points at Dad and rolls her eyes—“he’s a bit of a softy. He thought you’d grow out of it. But I knew all along. You’d only grow worse. And you proved me right.”

My heart twists and my gut sinks. My pulse pounds in my ears. I knew Mr. Foller was ruthless. But now I know, he’s evil.

“Mr. Foller said,” Mom continues, “that they had an excellent success rate in turning kids around. But I guess we can’t be right all the time.”

It takes a second for me to push the words through my trembling lips. “Get out.”

“Parker—”

“Don’t tell me to stop with the theatrics. I’ll never say anything more real than this.” I lean forward and stare them both down. “I hope you both go to hell.”

Dad looks away.

“Especially you,” I tell him. “You are a softy. You’re weak. And you know what? One day, the whole world is going to know that you’re nothing but a lying alcoholic who only amounted as far as his name would get him and needs his wife to carry him the rest of the way. Honey thought that about you all her life.” I pause, turning my attention to my mother. “And you. I don’t have words anymore, Candice. When Karma comes for you, you better be ready.”

Mom tilts her head. “What a joy you are. And to think we were coming to talk about Captain’s Cottage.”

“I don’t want it. I won’t be involved with your campaign at all anymore.”

Dad hangs his head. “Parker?—”

“Do you know what I was going to do to that place?” I lower my voice. “Burn it to the ground.”

Now I get something from my mother—the slightest tightening of her jaw.

I move to the front door and yank it open. “You can leave. And take your henchmen with you,” I snarl.

“Parker,” Dad says. “We’re not going anywhere until we talk about all this. Enough with the drama.”

“You clearly haven’t seen anything yet,” I say, pulling out my phone and swiping at the screen.

Mom rises from the barstool.

Ignoring her, I dial quickly. “Hello? Yes. I need to report a case of stalking.” I smirk at my parents before I tell the operator, “Yes. The address is four…You know what? It seems they’re leaving now. Thank you.”

I hang up the phone. My parents haven’t moved, and neither have the agents who stand curiously and concerned in the doorway. “Go. Or I’ll call them back. And then I’ll call every news station, every blogger and journalist and give a sit-down interview, and your bid to stay in the White House will end by the evening news.”

It’s a generational standoff, but I am Honey’s granddaughter. I’m not a flower.

I’m a bomb.

And for the first time in my entire life, I think my mother recognizes that. Because she walks out the door without any other demands from me.

And as I crumble to the floor, I physically feel like a bomb. Because I’m about to explode, and I’m afraid Fitz will be in my sphere of destruction.

But then I remember, he told me his greatest wish is that he stood up for what was right.

So I can only hope he’ll understand I need to do the same, even if he’s in the path of the bomb’s destruction.

* * *

I’ve never felt the need to check the lock on the door more than I have in the last hour. And worse? It’sstilllight out.

In my bedroom, I stick my secondary lock against the opening and shut the door against it. Then I climb into bed and yank the covers over me, hiding my head in the mound of pillows, searching for Fitz’s lingering scent.

I wonder if this will be all I have. I wonder if when it comes down to Foller and me, I won’t matter as much. Because how can I compete with someone he stands by so firmly? My racing thoughts of worst-case scenarios are so exhausting that they themselves are a distraction from the need to get out of bed and check the front door again. My mind takes me to another door, one you had to be buzzed into, one with letters on it.

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