Twisted-Games

agree. A recent poll put public approval for a repeal at ninety-three percent.”
Erhall’s chest puffed with indignation. “I beg to differ. Tradition is the
foundation of this country, this office, and your office. We cannot go about
tearing it down willy-nilly. So no, I’m afraid I cannot bring the motion to the
floor. No matter how many souvenir T-shirts they’re selling with Mr.
Larsen’s face on them,” he added with a small sneer.
Bridget and I exchanged glances.
Are you sure?
Yes. Do it.
Short, succinct, and silent. The most efficient conversation we’d ever had.
“You should care more about Mr. Larsen’s public profile,” Bridget said,
her mild tone giving no warning before she dropped the bombshell.
“Considering he’s your son.”
Most explosions were deafening, rattling teeth and eardrums with the
sheer force of the energy expelled. This one was silent but a hundred times
deadlier, its shock waves slamming into Erhall before he ever saw it coming.
I could pinpoint the moment the impact hit. His face drained of color, and
the smug self-satisfaction disappeared from his eyes as they bounced between
me and Bridget. Back and forth, back and forth, like two ping pong balls
stuck in a pendulum.
“That’s—he’s—that’s a lie,” Erhall sputtered. “I don’t have a son.”
“Michigan, summer of eighty-six,” I said. “Deidre Larsen.”
I didn’t think it was possible, but Erhall’s face paled further until it
matched the color of his starched button-down.
“Judging by your reaction, you remember her.” I leaned forward, my face
creasing with a grim smile when he scooted back an inch in response. A faint
sheen of perspiration glistened on his forehead. “She’s dead, by the way.
Turned to alcohol and drugs after a piece of shit lowlife abandoned her when
she told him she was pregnant. Overdosed when I was eleven.”
I thought I caught a flash of regret in Erhall’s eyes before he covered it
up.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” A muscle worked in his jaw, and he reached for
his tie only to lower his hand before making contact. “But I’m afraid I don’t
know a Deidre Larsen. You have me mistaken for someone else.”
My hands flexed into fists. Bridget slid a hand onto my knee, her touch
cool and reassuring, and I expelled a long breath before I forced myself to
relax.