Felicity
I crash through the door and run through the room toward Dad. People turn and regard with me confused expressions, but I ignore them. One man, one of those politicians who would look more at home on an oil rig than at a party, steps into my path, thumbs tucked into his belt and smiling benevolently.
“Miss Fellows!” he booms, his grin growing wider by the moment. “Miss Fellows!” he repeats, as though I didn’t hear him the first time. “I have to say, it is an honor to be standing here with you. We’ve all heard the story.” He leans in and I smell whisky on his breath. Strange, because we’re only serving champagne, water, and wine. “Lots of these nasty folk thought your father had something to do with it! Imagine! It was a scandal, I tell you, an absolute scandal! I know Gregory Fellows—not well, you understand, but well enough—and I know that he would never, even if his life depended on it, harm his daughter.”
All through this speech I try and step around him, but he shifts aside to block me. He is so rotund that he doesn’t have to move much to block me completely. He continues smiling, but . . . no, can it be?
“Are you part of it?” I snap. The words come out shrill. Several heads snap to us.
“Part of what?” he says, genuinely bemused.
“Part of it,” I hiss.
He squints at me, shaking his head. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific.
“Oh,” I mutter. “Never mind.”
I step around him and continue on my way. Jogging in heels is hard enough. It’s made harder by the fact that this dress is super-tight around my legs, causing my steps to be small, little pitter-patters which barely make any ground at all. I’m halfway across the room when the purple-framed-glasses journalist tumbles into my path.
“We haven’t finished our conversation,” she says, with a note of offence. She totters on her feet and that’s when I realize that everybody is a little too drunk. Everybody sways slightly and everybody’s faces are varying shades of red. “I don’t have to be a named author, you know. I’m not above ghostwriting your memoir. Or, we could collaborate. I think much good could come of a collaboration, you know? Much good, indeed. Why don’t we try it? It could be wonderful.”
“I’m sure it could,” I growl through gritted teeth. Is the whole world against me today? “We’ll discuss it later.”
I push past her, ignoring her cry of outrage, and finally I make it to Dad. He’s standing with an old couple. Just before I reach him, he lets out a laugh which fills the room like the call of a fog horn.
“Dad,” I gasp, touching his shoulder.
He holds a finger up to the couple—one second, ever so sorry—and turns to me. “That’s the Secretary of State,” he says tightly, nodding at the man, who turns and walks away. “You shouldn’t interrupt me when I’m with the Secretary of State, Felicity. You know better than that.”
“Yes, I know, but—”
“What’s wrong?” he says. “You look all flustered.”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you!” I hiss.
He brings his hand to my forehead, touches it. “You’re burning up,” he says.
“Dad!” I snap.
He tilts his head at me. “Are you drunk?”
“No, listen to me,” I breathe. “I think somebody is going to make an attempt on your life tonight. I just ran into a man who was part of the team that kidnapped me. He’s here, Dad, and if he’s here, that means that—”
“Sweetheart,” he says.
That word, spoken in that tone of voice, makes me want to scream. Sweetheart, is always followed by some nonsense excuse which is really only given to make me shut up.
“No, Dad,” I snap. “Not sweetheart. This is real. Somebody is going to try and kill you tonight.”
“Okay, okay.” Dad holds his hands up. “Let’s talk to this man you spotted. Where is he?”
“In the bathroom,” I mutter.
“Then let’s go see him.”
“He’s knocked out,” I admit, cheeks becoming warm.
“Knocked out?” Dad laughs. “What are you talking about? Listen, sweetheart, it’s natural that you feel worried. After all, you’ve only been back a couple of days—”
A gunshot shatters the glass of a window, spraying it like crystal across the room.