Page 73 of Midnight Secrets

“You’re one of the very few survivors of the Massacre. And the only one close to the podium to survive, except for Hector Blake, who in his official statement during the Senate inquest says that he was knocked out and came to after the explosion. He was found with a few cuts and scrapes.”

Isabel hadn’t been called to the Senate inquest. She’d barely just woken from her coma and would have been unable to testify to anything. She hadn’t even been asked.

So. This guy in Felicity’s computer seemed to know a lot. She’d spent so many months in which her memory was a blur. In which putting one foot in front of the other was painful and hard. In which merely surviving seemed to be the most that she could hope for.

These sudden memories were sharp, almost too sharp. She had to ask.

“So tell me. Am I—am I crazy? Or do I remember what really happened? Is my memory reliable?”

“Your memory is reliable, Isabel.”

Isabel stepped back a moment, in shock, and Joe was right there. He had her back in every way there was. She leaned back for a moment, leaned into that wall of strength, then straightened. Whatever happened from now on in had to depend onherstrength, not Joe’s.

“Do you have any idea why on earth Uncle Hector—Hector—would be involved in this?”

Everyone exchanged glances. “What?”

“Well, honey,” Joe said gently. “We aren’t in his head. So we don’t know if that was the motive. But the side effect of the Massacre was that three trillion dollars were drained from the United States into holding companies owned by Chinese companies. And that Hector Blake personally gained over a billion dollars. Which is a big motivator.”

A hot wind blew through Isabel, scorching and scouring so hard it felt like her skin was removed. It blew away all her insecurities and anxiety. It blew away the past six months and it blew away all her fears.

She hardly recognized her own voice, hoarse and raw. “Do you mean to tell me that Hector Blake killed my family, orchestrated the Massacre…for money?”

Joe shifted on his feet, watching her carefully. “It looks like?—”

“For money,”the mechanical voice said. “But maybe this is also part of a larger plan to destabilize the US economy.Or even destabilize the country.”

Isabel barely heard the mechanical voice. Her mother, father, three brothers. Aunts, uncles, cousins. Hundreds and hundreds of innocent people.Murdered. Murdered for money.

She had no idea she could feel such rage.

Isabel pulled her cell phone out of her purse and started scrolling furiously.

Without looking up she could feel the eyes of everyone on her. “What?” Damn, where was that number? Her fingers were trembling, making the delicate screen jump around.

“Who are you calling, Isabel?” Joe asked. When she didn’t answer, he put his hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it off. “Who?”

Aha! There it was!“I’m calling that son of a bitch Hector Blake and I’m going to accuse him of mass murder. And I am going to bring that bastard down!”

“Stop her!”The mechanical voice said, urgency even in the artificial tone, just as Joe snatched her phone from her hands.

Isabel turned to him, fury in her voice. “Give that to me!”

Joe’s face was sad but firm. “Sorry, honey. Ask me anything else and I’ll give it to you, but not this.”

She slapped her hand against his chest, feeling hard muscle. She hadn’t hurt him, but she wanted to. She wanted to strike and scream and hurt. “Give me that phone!”

He was holding it away from her and if she knew anything at all, it was that she had no chance of grabbing it, none at all. He was bigger than her, taller than her, stronger than her.

The way of the world. The biggest guys won.

Tears burned in her eyes but she refused to shed them. She would never cry again. She looked at everyone in the room, looked directly in their eyes, stared at the monitor where this ghost man resided, then looked Joe squarely in the face.

“You’re not going to let him get away with this!” She looked around. “All of you. Hear me, hear what I’m saying. We have to do something. I’m going to call every single reporter I know, and I know a lot of them, including Summer Redding, who runs the political blogArea 8. She’s not afraid of anything, and neither am I!”

Joe’s face was tight, nostrils wide, white lines around his mouth. He wasn’t happy keeping her phone from her. But he was doing it.

“Goddamnit, Joe!”

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