The Inner Circle

53

Clementine knew it wasn’t good for her.

That’s why she waited until the house was quiet.

And why she locked the door to her room.

And then waited some more.

There were enough surprises tonight-most notably the kiss from Beecher. Clementine knew he’d try-eventually he’d try-but that didn’t mean it didn’t catch her off guard. Plus, the old woman had already done enough. She didn’t need to be there for this too.

For comfort, Clementine whistled a quick “psst psst-here, Parky” at her chubby ginger cat, and as he always did, Parker slowly circled his way up the arms of the forest green futon to Clementine’s lap, rubbing his head into her palms.

The cat’s kindness was one of the few things Clementine could count on these days, and it was exactly that thought that brought the sudden swell of tears to her eyes.

It reminded her of when she first moved to Virginia and ventured into the local Home Depot to buy a barbecue grill to celebrate the Fourth of July. Stopping one of the orange-overalled employees-a short man with chapped lips and greedy eyes-she asked, “Do I need to spend the few hundred bucks to buy a good grill, or would one of the fifty-dollar cheap grills do the job just as well?”

Licking his chapped lips, the employee said, “Let me explain it like this: I’m a car guy. I love cars. I love all cars. And I especially love my 1989 Camaro RS, which I recently spent over $3,000 on to put in a sunroof. Now. You ask yourself: Why would someone spend $3,000 to install a sunroof in some old car from 1989? You wanna know why? Because I’m a car guy. That’s who I am. That’s what I care about. So as you look at these grills, you need to ask yourself…” He took a deep breath and leaned in toward her. “Are you a grill gal?”

The man didn’t need to say another word. Smiling to herself, Clementine grabbed a cheap fifty-dollar grill and marched toward the cash register. She wasn’t a grill gal. Or a car gal, a clothes gal, or even a shoe gal.

She knew who she was. She was a cat gal.

No, it wasn’t in that crazy-cat-lady way. And yes, there were plenty of people who love their cats and buy them cute plastic toys and high-end scratching posts. Pets can be the very best family members. But there were still only a few who annually throw their cat a real birthday party… or make appointments solely with feline-only vets, who only see cats as patients… or make sure that their cat’s food and water bowls sit atop a wrought-iron base that keeps the bowls at cat-eye level so that their pet doesn’t have to bend to drink.

Some people buy sunroofs. Some buy expensive grills. And some spend their money on a treasured pet. Clementine could even laugh at the insanity of it, but she was proud of being a cat gal-it was always her thing. Until she arrived at St. Elizabeths and saw her father so delicately and beautifully tending to all the cats there.

Just the sight of it made her feel like someone had hollowed out her body and stolen all her organs for themselves. Like her personal parts were no longer her own. It was the same feeling she had when she found out Nico was living so close to where she moved in Virginia. Or when he said that everything in life was already decided. Or when she read that he was almost her age when he had his first psychotic episode.

Of course she told herself none of that meant anything. Life was full of woo-woo coincidences.

But it was still her dad… her dad who lived near her… and looked so much like her… and somehow loved the exact same thing she loved so damn much. With everything else that she’d lost in life-the DJ jobs… the advertising jobs… even her mom-maybe in this moment, Clementine was due for a gain. Plus, it was still her dad. How could she not have some emotional connection?

And that was the one thing that Beecher-who lost his own father-understood better than anyone. Sure, seeing Nico was the hardest thing Clementine had ever done, but like any orphan, she wasn’t tracking down her father to learn more about him. She was tracking him down to learn more about herself.

With the push of a button, Clementine’s laptop hummed to life, and she sat back on the futon with Parker in her lap and the laptop by her side.

“I know, I know,” she whispered to Parker.

It definitely wouldn’t be good for her. And the worst part was, she knew the pain was only getting worse.

Of course, if she wanted, she could stop it. It’d be so easy to stop. All she had to do was shut the laptop. Slap it shut, go to sleep, and replay those moments of Beecher’s reaffirming kiss.

Indeed, as her fingers flicked across the keyboard and she hit the enter key, all she had to do was close her eyes.

But the saddest truth of all? She didn’t want to.

Onscreen, the video on YouTube slowly loaded and began to play. Clementine leaned toward the computer, wrapping her arms around Parker’s body. She pulled the cat close-especially when the man with the big politician’s grin stepped out onto the NASCAR track, his black windbreaker puffing up like a balloon.

On the far right of the screen, a man in a yellow jumpsuit entered the frame and raised his gun.

And as she had so many times before, Clementine felt her stomach fall as she watched her father try to murder the President.