Page 18 of The Americana Playbook

“Parker.” Knock, knock. “Open the door, please.”

My sister sounds the same but so different, as if the door buffering her voice brings me to a different time and place—back to when we were kids, and Madeline would call me in for dinner from the back deck while I was out playing with Fitz. Like now, I’d pretend not to hear her, desperate for just five more minutes. Even though the sun was setting and I knew dinner was on the table, I always wanted five more minutes.

Five more minutes to be pirates, soldiers, Peter Pan’s lost boys, to berebelswith Fitz.

“Parker.”

Against my better judgment, I undo my locks and open the door.

“I do have a phone.”

Madeline lets out a small huff. “You changed the number.”

I raise an eyebrow and eye her entourage. Not one but two Secret Service agents accompany her, as if Madeline deciding to visit her sister is a dangerous trek. “Has that stopped you before?”

I’ve heard from my sister on and off in the last few years of my father’s first presidential term. But I haven’t seen her in over five years when she tracked me down in Chicago and cornered me at work.

“Well, this isn’t exactly aphonetype of conversation.”

“Oh. It’s a middle-of-my-hallway conversation then?”

“We need to talk, Parker. Come with me.”

“Like the three other times I’ve seen you in the last thirteen years, I don’t have much to say. Now get out of here before someone sees you.” I go to close the door, but Madeline stops me.

“Parker, I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important.”

That doesn’t equate to ifyouweren’t important, I remind myself.Madeline wants something.

“It’s a bad time,” I tell her. “I have plans.”

Madeline doesn’t budge.

“Fine,” I say. “Youcan come in for five minutes. I’m not going anywhere with you. If you have something to say to me”—like happy fucking birthday—“you can come in, say it, and go.”

“It’s notme,” my sister tells me. “It’s Mom.”

Any other daughter might have the gut reaction to askIs Mom okay? What happened?But I’m not any kind of daughter. Plus, I figure if the First Lady dropped dead, I would’ve heard about it by now.

“Tell me where to go,” I say. “And I’ll take an Uber.”

Madeline shakes her head. “You’ll ride with me.”

My eyes flit to the Secret Service agents.

“For god’s sake, Parker,” Madeline huffs. “If we wanted to kidnap you, I wouldn’t do it in broad day light.”

“I know. Last time it was the dead of night.”

My sister rolls her eyes and doesn’t budge. I know she won’t leave unless it’s with me.

“I need to be back in an hour,” I tell her. “Someone is expecting me.”

I say this because it’s true, and because I want her to know someone is expecting me to come back this time.

* * *

“Ma’am, would you mind spreading your legs?”

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