Page 19 of The Toy Collector

I hand him a pen so he can sign the death sentence with ink instead of blood like I really want to make him do.

Jacobs stares at the letter. Twenty-six seconds. That’s how long it takes before Jacobs’ hand moves. Twenty-eight. That’s when he signs. Thirty. That’s when he folds completely.

“One more thing,” I say, holding up my phone. “Smile to the camera you sick fuck.” I snap a few pictures of Jacobs and the room, before also recording all of it for good measure.

If he holds up his end of the bargain, I’ll never use the pictures. They’ll be deleted the second Cy’s done with him. But if he tries to weasel out? I’ll release them all. I’ll obliterate his family tree so far back that even the first of his line will feel the disgrace.

Without saying goodbye, we leave Jacobs to stew in his own undoing.

Chapter 7

Piper

Aweek passes by in the blink of an eye. I barely feel the days change, all I can do is try to keep up with my classes.

The overhead lights in the lecture hall buzz faintly, casting a sterile glow over the semicircle of tiered seats. I sit near the middle of the lecture hall, my laptop open, fingers hovering over the keyboard without touching it.

There’s something about this class—Political Strategy and Image Control—that feels heavier than usual today. The professor’s voice drifts through the space, but I barely register the words until the rhythm breaks. A remote clicks and the projector hums to life.

“We’re going to pause here,” Professor Ellington says, his tone unusually tight. “This just started five minutes ago. Consider it a real-time lesson in public narrative collapse.”

The screen flickers once, then stabilizes. There, under the cold lighting of a press podium, stands Senator Jacobs.

There’s not a political student at Georgetown who doesn’t know him. He’s shown up in every class—from Ethics to Campaign Strategy—as the gold standard for public image.

As a veteran advocate, a pediatric hospital donor, and a clean-cut family man with his high school sweetheart and two smiling daughters, it was all too easy to root for him.

Washington D.C. isn’t short of politicians by any means, but Jacobs is one of the few that captured the heart of the nation. The fact that he was dubbed Senator Silver Fox by the media, and managed to charm everyone from kids to adults didn’t hurt either.

The man standing on the podium bears very little resemblance to the presence we’re used to seeing. He looks smaller, somehow. Less polished. Almost like something vital got stripped out of him before he walked to the podium.

Too busy staring at the way his mouth moves without conviction, I don’t hear the firstfew words of his statement. The resignation is written in the slump of his shoulders long before the words confirm it.

Murmurs ripple through the room like a current of disbelief, but something else coils in my gut. A chill. An itch I can’t name. Jacobs was just another name on a long list of internship options I once pretended I had a shot at. So why can’t I shake the sense that this isn’t just politics?

“… and therefore, it’s my belief that I can best serve my country by resigning. I’ve been in politics for over thirty years. It’s time for me to take a step back and spend time with my family.”

Someone scoffs to my left. “He’s only fifty-three. Why is he sounding like he’s on death’s bed?”

“Maybe he is,” another of my classmates suggests. “He could have cancer or something.”

A wave of whispers starts from the back of the room and makes its way forward like a groundswell. My classmates’ voices rise as discussions about this being a setup breaks out. I don’t know why, but I can’t look away. Something about this feels staged, and I feel like I’m watching a building implode in perfect symmetry.

Jacobs fades from the screen, and the projector cuts out. Our professor flicks the lights back on and starts throwing out questions. “How should Jacobs have played this?” he asks. “What’s his next move?”

Someone coughs. “Guess I’m not going to hear back from my internship application with Jacobs’ office,” he jokes.

Professor Ellington shakes his head. But instead of saying something berating, he agrees. “Probably not. Let this be another lesson for all of you. In politics, you don’t always know when it’s your last campaign or even your last day. So don’t waste time wondering ‘what if’ and go for what you want.”

Paying attention is almost impossible as my thoughts begin to spiral. It should make me feel better to know I’m not the last student without an internship. But all it does is serve as a reminder of the failed interview two days ago. I’m oh-for-two.

The only good thing about my second interview is that they were a lot nicer than Lauren fucking Chase. But in the end, the result was the same. They didn’t want me, and no amount of niceness attached to that verdict could sweeten the blow.

With a barely audible sigh, I close my laptop. Knowing that my mind is too preoccupied to take a single note, I admit defeat. At least to myself. God, I really need to get a grip and preferably soon.

Class moves on around me, the sound of Ellington’s voice rises above the noise as people start filtering out after he dismisses us with a quick reminder about Monday’s reading, but I don’t remember what it was. I barely remember standing.

The halls blur on either side of me as I walk—faces passing, conversations I don’t catch, laughter I’m not part of. I know that makes me sound miserable, and maybe I am. At least that would explain the way I seem to be letting everything slip.

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