A Harmless Little Game (Harmless #1)

 

A creepy-crawly sensation stipples my skin.

 

I pull out the phone to find a text.

 

From Stacia.

 

Hi Lindsay. I’d love to talk with you.

 

I inhale so sharply from shock that a piece of apple gets caught in my throat, making me gag. Hacking, I cough hard, the piece dislodging.

 

“For goodness sake, Lindsay,” Mom says in hushed tones. “Try not to make a spectacle of yourself.”

 

“Right,” I rasp. “I’ll remember that next time I’m experiencing oxygen deprivation. Priority: don’t make waves.”

 

Mom glares.

 

I glare back. “You gave Stacia my phone number?”

 

“Anya must have. We decided it was best.”

 

“Who decided?”

 

She ignores that question. A master at swinging any conversation in the direction of her choosing, Mom says, “Weekly phone sessions with Stacia will be critical for your success during the campaign.”

 

“I can’t stand Stacia.”

 

“She’s good for you.”

 

“She’s good for you.”

 

“You need professional help.”

 

She’s right. I hate to admit it, but she’s right. “I’ll see a psychologist.”

 

Mom looks so satisfied with herself. She resumes eating, jabbing the salad like it’s a fencing competition.

 

“But not her. A different doctor. One I choose.”

 

“You are so stubborn—”

 

“Just like your father,” I say with her, our voices in stereo. We laugh. I think we’re both desperate to find a way to bridge from our anger to something better.

 

That is so hard.

 

And I have a feeling she expects me to extend the olive branch. No way.

 

“My choice. I’ll pick. And not someone you or Daddy vets.”

 

“That’s a tall order. You know we need to make sure any professional you might confide in won’t turn around and sell your stories to the tabloids.”

 

“A professional psychologist with a Ph.D. and a license isn’t going to do that, Mom.”

 

“Your first one already did. While you were at the Island.”

 

I feel like I am floating in the ocean, thousands of miles from land, and giant swells keep crashing into me, making me sputter, the taste of sea water destroying me from the outside in.

 

“That happened?” I croak. “Who?”

 

“One of the rape counselors from the emergency room.”

 

“The what?”

 

“You were groggy, but able to speak, when you first came in.” Mom describes this like she’s telling me the storyline for the latest movie she saw. “A rape counselor interviewed you. Later, when Tara, Mandy and Jenna came forward and shared that you’d asked for the kinky foursome, the rape counselor did, too. Told everyone you told her it was consensual.”

 

My knees turn to rubber bands again.

 

No wonder no one believes me.

 

I stare at Mom, who gives me a look that isn’t quite sympathy, isn’t quite dismissive, but somewhere in between. “Do you see, Lindsay? This is why we kept you safe on the Island all these years. Too many leaks. Too much disinformation. Back then, it was a shitstorm,” she hisses. “Harry didn’t know who to believe, and controlling his election was the priority. For all we knew, this was deliberate sabotage on someone’s part to make sure your father wasn’t re-elected.”

 

I’m still blown away by the fact that a rape counselor I don’t even remember lied to the media.

 

“Huh?”

 

“The second six-year term was critical for solidifying power on the important committees in the senate, and to pave the way for the White House,” she explains, as if that’s what I was questioning.

 

“No. No. I, uh, I understand that,” I say. “I mean—the rape counselor lied and nothing happened to her?”

 

“Oh, something happened, all right. We learned she made a tidy six figures from the tabloid she shoveled that steaming pile of manure to.”

 

My mind scrambles to connect all of this. Why? Why did someone do this to me? So many someones? Why would person after person lie about who I am and let those bastards get away with this?

 

“And Tara?” I ask. At the mention of my ex-best-friend’s name Mom’s face hardens.

 

“What about her?”

 

“Did someone pay her and my other friends off, too? Is that why they lied?”

 

She huffs, one hand going to her hair, primping. “Who knows what those little twits were thinking when they conjured up that little attention-seeking circus.” Mom’s anger is coming through. Her words hurt, but the feeling underneath them is the first sense I have that she really does understand that I didn’t choose any of what happened to me. She understands the truth.

 

She just won’t act on it.

 

Mom’s phone buzzes. She doesn’t even look at it. “I have to go now, sweetie.” She stands, most of her salad abandoned. “A new playground in Fresno that Daddy got through federal funds. A new community center, too. I’m the guest of honor.” Mom did these appearances non-stop, and had for years. When I was still in school and younger, she came to every single one of my school events, every choir performance, every football game where I cheered, every graduation.