A Harmless Little Game (Harmless #1)

 

He nods. I know Daddy. He didn’t miss my inflection. Ignoring it meets his needs, so he’ll pretend I didn’t say it. “We did so much damage control four years ago, sweetie. You weren’t here to witness it.” He squares his shoulders, as if bracing for a blow. “It’s time to talk about it. Strategize. Prepare.”

 

Great. My gang rape is now an incident that requires more strategic management than a war. Maybe even more than Black Friday sales.

 

“And everything we discuss in here is absolutely confidential,” Mom says, her voice smooth but menacing. I’m not sure if her words are aimed only at me.

 

I look around the room as Daddy steps back to his seat at the head of the table. From the looks on some faces, I’m pretty sure Mom’s target was wide. Like buckshot.

 

And everyone got hit with a little shrapnel.

 

“Of course,” I reply, trying to match her tone. My skin is on fire. There’s a coffee machine on a buffet table against the wall. Turning away from the table, I prepare a cup, searching for cream. There is none.

 

I can tell Anya’s watching me, because she stands quickly and announces, “Let me get cream. Sorry. We used it all.” Her swift exit involves being watched carefully by Mom, her eyes tracking Daddy’s assistant, narrowing as Anya disappears out the door.

 

What’s that about? Mom’s never had a problem with Anya. The running joke about her being Daddy’s work wife was always just a joke.

 

So much has changed in four years.

 

President. My very own father is running for President of the United States. Leader of the free world and all that. The enormity of it hits me. My dad wants to be the most powerful person in the world.

 

But he couldn’t stop what happened to me four years ago.

 

Or seek justice for me after.

 

I stand in front of the coffee machine, my back to the table still, as Anya comes in with a small carton of light cream and sets it down on the table. Mom’s nose wrinkles in distaste. She clearly wants the cream poured into the little silver serving pitcher. Anya doesn’t care, long accustomed to work blitzes where the tables become littered with take-out boxes, hours of work interrupted only by coffee, pizza, and deli sandwiches.

 

And more crises.

 

“Marshall. You start,” Daddy says, nodding to him.

 

Marshall gives me an evaluative look, then launches into a PowerPoint presentation titled “LB Incident.”

 

My scandal has a title. A boring, bland name that conveys none of the pain. The terror. The horror. The clawing, blinding, wretched disgust of it all.

 

No—LB Incident. That’s it.

 

It’s named after me. Not after the crime itself, or the men who did this to me.

 

“Four years ago, Lindsay appeared on streaming television—and was video recorded—in a compromising position with three males of her acquaintance,” Marshall says, clearly reading from a script.

 

I pour the cream in my coffee. The first drop does nothing, absorbed neatly by the black liquid. Two drops, four, then a thin stream starts to alter the color, eventually changing it completely from a dark void.

 

Compromising position. The euphemism makes me gag. I stop myself by swallowing scalding coffee, barely feeling the burn.

 

“Investigations later revealed that no crime had been committed. Interviews with eyewitnesses indicated that Lindsay was intoxicated and consented to the acts depicted on camera.”

 

I feel Drew’s eyes on me, sudden and piercing. My throat seizes. Heat and wetness fill my eyes. No. I will not cry. No.

 

“While one of Lindsay’s friends, Jane Borokov, found her bruised, beaten, and tied with scarves that caused injuries, the testimony of Mandy Witherspoon, Jenna Marquez, and Tara Holdstrom indicated that enough witnesses present confirmed that although her condition involved significant injury, the injuries were of a sexual nature and that those were administered with her agreement.”

 

With her agreement.

 

Drew interrupts Marshall’s PowerPoint just as the screen clicks over from the words LB Incident, with bullet points summarizing his words, and to a new slide, which reads:

 

Reputation Management and Senate Campaign

 

I bury my face in my coffee cup and try not to react.

 

“Was Lindsay interviewed at any point in these investigations?” he asks, the question a challenge. I can’t look at him. I feel naked already.

 

Everyone looks at me. Ah. I see. This is how it’s going to be.

 

“No,” I say, most of the word echoing against my hot coffee in the mug. But everyone can hear me.

 

Loud and clear.

 

“Why not?” Drew is looking at my father. Not Marshall, not me, not Mom.

 

“That’s classified information,” Dad says in a tight voice.

 

“Classified? What the hell does Lindsay’s gang rape have to do with government secrets?”