Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 76846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
I grabbed my tablet out of my purse, shooting off a message to my team to get in touch with Michael for me, tell him that my phone was broken, and that I would be in touch as soon as I got a new one.
From there, I ordered a new one to be delivered to my apartment building.
Did I maybe also order some pepper spray and an ear-splittingly loud personal alarm? Yes, yes, I did.
Because as the hours ticked by, the reality of this seemed to settle in more and more.
Someone had tried to shoot me.
Kill me.
They would follow me, look for openings to try again.
Paranoid, I also placed an order for some heavy drapes for my apartment, not knowing enough about snipers to know if it was possible to shoot me from a rooftop across from the building or not, but not willing to take the risk.
“Thank goodness for same-day delivery,” I said when Brian brought my packages up for me. It wasn’t his job. But I learned from watching powerful men and women that if you gave the right people—doormen, cleaning people, concierges—a little more cash than they expected, they would often go above and beyond for you.
Brian was still thankful for his very handsome Christmas bonus. And I was thankful not to have to leave my apartment unless absolutely necessary.
I busied myself over the next hour by setting up my phone and hanging my curtains before, finally, calling Michael.
“Where have you been?” he snarled in my ear as I walked through my bedroom, feeling safer the deeper into my apartment I got. “There was a shooting out front of the building today, Beth, a shooting.”
I hated being called Beth.
I introduced myself by my full name for a reason.
I stopped in my bathroom, catching my reflection, still seeing drips of blood on my white shirt, and the gauze taped to my upper arm.
“Yes, I know,” I said, taking a deep breath.
“I had to do a press conference without you,” he ranted.
I imagine that had not gone well.
Without being given the proper talking points, he always ended up saying the wrong thing.
“How did that go?” I asked.
“Isn’t it your job to know that?”
“I’ve been too busy to watch TV,” I told him. “How did it go?”
“Well, I denounced the assassination attempt,” he said, making me squeeze my eyes shut. Clearly, it was not an assassination attempt on him when he wasn’t even in Brooklyn at the time. “I made it clear that we will not tolerate this sort of hate for us.”
Oh, lord.
He’d made it about his party. An us versus them thing. Which only sowed the seeds of more division. When we were trying to run on a campaign of unity, of working together, of overcoming our differences to work on the things that really mattered.
In one press conference, he’d undone months of work on my part. Not to mention the dozen or more staffers and volunteers who’d been clocking nearly as many hours.
“Was anyone shot?” I asked, realizing just how selfish I’d been, not checking the news, not finding out if anyone else caught a bullet meant for me.
“One man was grazed. One witness said a woman was bleeding, but no one knows who she was.”
“Did you happen to make a statement about them?” I asked.
“Why would I make a statement about them?”
Oh, because they were hurt when you were safely forty minutes away?
“Did you denounce political violence in all forms?” I asked, knowing by his silence that he hadn’t. He’d rather be made the victim, to rile up his support base.
Even though this literally wasn’t even about him.
I mean, it was, but only indirectly.
After a full day of thinking about it, my best conclusion was that someone had seen me leaving the office after Michael had already left. Then they’d, rightfully, assumed I had overheard the conversation.
“This is why you were supposed to be in the office!” Michael roared, mind likely racing about all the ways his press conference could be spun against him.
Really, it wouldn’t even take any spinning.
“I will be there first thing tomorrow morning. We will do damage control. Put out statements. Get you another interview, claim you were shaken up after the news of the shooting, and weren’t being as eloquent as usual.”
All the old standbys.
“You better fix this,” he warned.
The or else was silent.
But the threat of it wasn’t as upsetting as it would have been just a day or two ago.
It was hard to be worried about your professional future when your actual future existence was kind of hanging in the balance.
“I will get us back on message,” I said instead of claiming I would fix this. Especially when I didn’t know what he’d said, or how he’d said it.
“I won’t forget you leaving me when I needed you most,” he said before ending the call.