Even as the Elysian heir, contacting the committee members is akin to receiving quick and productive assistance from an insurance agent. Both situations fill Lynell with frustration till her bones feel like they could pop at any second.
The first one to answer is Warner Golden, her favorite amongst the committee, and he volunteers his advice and knowledge without prompting.
“In addition to myself, Junior Booker and Robin Jacobs voted against the policy change last time,” Warner says.
The call is on speaker, so Lynell has both hands free to take notes. She’s sitting cross-legged on her desk, having long ago kicked off her shoes and unpinned her hair.
“You need one more to vote no, then you can cast the tiebreaker vote, but I would suggest at least two more in case someone surprises you and changes their vote.”
“Are you hinting plans to back out on me, Mr. Golden?” Lynell asks in a lilting, joking tone.
“Do you have such little faith in me, Mrs. Carter?”
She laughs. “How confident are you that Junior and Robin will vote no again?” She’s specifically thinking about Robin, who doesn’t seem like the open-minded type.
“If I still gambled, I’d bet my committee seat on them both. Junior might not seem it, but he truly cares about the people. All of them.”
Lynell notes the stressor in the last three words and leans down to write cares about all ppl-meaning? next to Junior’s name on her notes.
“You won’t find anyone more loyal to the traditional ways than Robin,” Warner continues. “She’s voted against every possible change since I joined the committee over thirty years ago. My suggestion would be to focus on the remaining women. Verity McGowan was the least certain of her vote last time. Tilly Nguyen votes solely on logic, so if you have a strong argument, you might have a chance convincing her. Tamara Nelson will empathize with your position as a woman and as the youngest person at the table.”
Lynell transcribes his words, though she doubts her chances with Tilly and Tamara. Both have strong reasons to support anything that helps immigrants.
“Thank you, Warner,” she says. “This is really helpful.”
“Of course, darling. Any time.” He’s quiet for a moment and Lynell is about to check if the call was dropped when he says, “How well did you know Zachary?”
Lynell drops her pen and straightens her spine. The question is so unexpected that she has to turn it over in her mind a few times before answering. “Well, I didn’t meet him until a couple of weeks ago, when he Registered me.” She hops off the desk and walks to the bookshelves built into the far wall. “It took a few days before I learned who he really was, then it wasn’t until he risked his life to save Daniel and me that I started trusting him.” Images of Zach standing between her and several armed men flitted across her vision.
“So, you liked him?”
Zach Registered her, kidnapped her, and tortured her. But he also saved her. More importantly, he saved Daniel and Anna. And he was her cousin.
“Yes, I liked him,” she answers with full conviction. “He was a good man.” Then, yearning to ease the ache of the abused part of her heart that longs for a family, she asks, “Did you know him well?”
Warner takes a shaky breath. His voice is more delicate now than when they were discussing business. “No, but we met several times. He grew more callous over the years. I worried he was becoming more like his father.”
Lynell never saw Eric’s cruelty or desperation for control in Zach, even in the beginning. She couldn’t rationalize why Zach thoughtlessly obeyed until he explained that Eric had threatened his mother’s life.
“Did you ever meet his mom?” she asks. Zach said he hadn’t known his mom until five years ago, but Warner joined the committee years before Zach was born.
Warner’s breath catches and his voice is thick and quiet when he says, “Not well.” Then, before she can reply, he adds, “I should be going. Good luck with your meetings.”
Lynell is left confused when the call abruptly ends. She stares at the phone, unreleased pressure behind her eyes and nose causing emotional vertigo.
To steady herself and set aside the odd conversation for now, she opens the committee members’ binders to hunt for any helpful information before attempting to contact them again. She dives in, reading until her eyes strain. It takes four hours, but she manages to make two appointments for the following day, one with Tamara Nelson and one with Verity McGowan. She’s scanning immigration laws when someone knocks on the office door.
“Come in,” she calls, setting her highlighter down and looking up, catching the time on the clock as Ramsey walks in. Seven p.m.? When did it get so late?
“I see you managed to secure two meetings tomorrow, well done.” Her eyebrows pull together, and he adds, “I have access to your calendar.”
“Oh,” she says. Now that her focus is broken, she feels the exhaustion settle over her like a weighted blanket. “Right.”
“I can assist in preparations, if you’d like,” he offers.
“Maybe in the morning. Any news? On the bomber or anything else?”
Ramsey’s years of perfecting his professional attitude makes it nearly impossible to tell what he’s thinking. Still, Lynell senses a moment’s hesitation before he answers, “I’ve narrowed down the suspect list to these people.” He passes her a piece of paper that has fourteen names, each with the suspect’s age, vocation, and connection to Lynell. “Please let me know if any of these stand out to you, and I’ll look into them more carefully.”
“The bomber wasn’t caught on camera?”
“Not his face. But we have an approximate height and weight, which all these men fit.”
“What is it?” Lynell’s eyes move from the paper to Ramsey’s face.
“About five feet, nine inches and a hundred and fifty to a hundred and seventy-five pounds. His clothing made the weight difficult to determine.”
She scans Ramsey’s body and thinks back to his file. She read it while still in the hospital, but the memory is crisp. “That would be about your size, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
When he doesn’t say anything else, she presses her lips together and nods. “Do we know anything else about him?”
“He’s Caucasian. Street cameras gave us a potential car, but we traced it back to an eighty-year-old woman who reported it stolen six days ago. The cops put a BOLO out. No news on possible DNA results yet, but I’ll let you know when there is. I’m sure we’ll find the responsible party soon.”
“I’m sure you will. Anything else?”
“I’ve confirmed that you will be officially announced as CEO next Friday during the convention. Both your father and Eric had rather large parties to mark their succession as the Elysian heir, so this convention will be a perfect event to do so. The planners are adjusting accordingly; increasing the guest list and media presence, inviting vendors to open the event, ensuring the entire affair will be live streamed for the rest of the country, and more.”
“Do we have to—”
“Yes,” Ramsey interrupts. “It’s a notable moment in our country’s history and vital that your incumbency begins with sufficient significance and credibility. Traditions such as these give countries confidence in their leaders.”
She huffs but acquiesces. “Fine. What else?”
Ramsey runs through a list of reports, most of them unremarkable, before excusing himself. Lynell mulls over what she’s learned while rubbing her eyes, letting her mind sift through the details. After a few minutes, her stomach urges a gear shift, and she leaves the office to hunt down Daniel for a late dinner.
She doesn't get much sleep that night and finally gives up, pulls on a pair of sweats, and quietly returns upstairs to her office. After settling into her chair and switching on a lamp in lieu of the overhead light, she studies the names on Ramsey’s list and draws stars next to the ones she recognizes. She can’t, however, think of a personal reason any of them would have to target her.
She sighs and sets the list aside, then dives into the stack of files waiting for her to play catch-up on years of the Registration run by her uncle. Daniel finds her several hours later, a steaming cup of coffee at her elbow while she pores over minutes from past committee meetings.
“Don’t worry. If anyone can convince these people, it’s you,” he says, pressing a kiss to her lips. “I’m seeing an old friend of mine today. Maybe he can help.”
“An old friend?”
Daniel nods. “Grant Woods. We fought together.”
“He’s a rebel?”
His eyes crinkle with a smile. “Don’t worry, Lyn. I’ll take a guard and won’t meet with any other rebels without you. I’ll be safe.”
“If someone sees you . . .” She hates that she and Daniel have to live their life conscious of the public eye now. But if she’s going to make the system work for her, then she has to play by its rules. Meaning Daniel does too. At least, in public.
“We won’t be seen, promise. Besides, it’s not like Grant is a famous rebel.”
She wishes Daniel could stay secure and safe in their house all day, but he’s her partner, and they need to work together for this life to work.
Before he leaves, Lynell stands to give him a proper kiss, each promising they’ll be safe, and it takes several deep breaths after he leaves before she’s ready to return to her mountain of work.
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* * *
Running on coffee and last night’s meal, Lynell skips breakfast, hurrying to the first meeting of the day, with Verity. And though the other woman listens to Lynell’s pitch, she doesn’t make any promises or seem overtly inclined to change her vote. Without time to fully dissect the conversation or drum up a detailed argument beyond simply feeling out the stern woman, Lynell heads to Tamara’s office.
In the car, she sits in the back seat, silently rehearsing her pitch while one guard drives her from place to place like a chauffeur and another sits in the front, acting as her bodyguard.
Unpredictable as always, a memory surfaces, lurching Lynell to the back seat of a different car, this one holding Zach, too. She didn’t know him yet, but got her first glimpse of his true nature in his visible fear that seemed to heighten the closer they got to his house.
“Who are you?” she’d asked.
He laughed and replied, “The question is, who are you?”
Over three weeks later, and she still doesn’t have an answer to that question.
She pushes her cousin from her mind, and twenty minutes later, they’re parking outside a gothic-style commercial building with the name “NELSON & COLLINS” on the front. Tamara purchased one of the largest publishing houses in the country a few years ago, changed the name, and moved the headquarters from New York to Dallas after accepting a chair on the Registration committee.
All independent publishing houses, media conglomerates, and production companies are owned by a committee member or oligarch, whether directly or indirectly through parent companies. With religious organizations and news stations still active, the country has the illusion of free speech, but the eight committee members, seven oligarchs, and Registration owner have their hands in all the companies that might produce anti-Registration and anti-oligarch materials.
Which is why Lynell doesn’t understand why there’s so much negative news about her— between the sixteen of them, they should be able to control it. Like Lynell alluded to in yesterday’s committee meeting, among the sixteen of them, there shouldn’t be so much negative news coverage on Lynell. Not if the committee and oligarchs didn’t want such material published.
Lynell can’t help but marvel at the building’s architecture and interior on her way to Tamara’s office. The company’s success breathes through the bustling atmosphere while employees rush about the open floor plan, even on a Saturday. Covers of the publisher’s bestsellers are blown up to fill the walls top to bottom, thousands of books are strategically placed on shelves and desks, and the space is naturally lit by tall domed windows. She feels a strong yearning to curl up with a good book and dive into a world that doesn’t involve boardrooms, the Registration, or bombs. But she tamps it down and focuses on the task at hand.
Tamara meets Lynell at the door with a bright, purple-painted smile. “Carter, welcome to paradise.”
“Thank you,” Lynell says, following Tamara into her office and telling the guard to wait outside. The driver stayed in the car, probably to keep an eye on the building’s perimeters.
“Would you like a cuppa?”
“That would be lovely. Black with cream if you have it.”
“Of course.” She orders their drinks as a young intern closes the door on his way out, giving the two women complete privacy.
“So, I assume this visit isn’t about a book you’d like published?” Tamara asks. Her Australian twang makes everything she says captivating, helping to settle any nerves lingering in Lynell’s empty stomach.
“I wish,” Lynell mutters. “I’ve been reading books from this publisher my whole life.”
“I did get a good one, didn’t I?”
They dribble away with small talk, until the intern returns with their tea. Once they’re alone again, Lynell seizes the moment to launch into her pitch, but she’s hardly a few sentences in before Tamara interrupts.
“You get why I’m supporting this policy, right?”
“Of course,” Lynell says, stirring a wooden stick around her tea. “But what if you can get what you want without this specific policy passing?”
“This is the first policy that gives immigrants a chance of having a Registration,” Tamara says. “I’m a committee chair and have never had a Registration.”
“But it doesn’t have to be the last.” Lynell is immensely grateful for the large oak desk between them hiding her bouncing leg. “Only adult immigrants with plenty of money to spare will benefit from this policy. We can do better. Rather than the rich gaining more power over life and death, let's give everyone the opportunity. Anyone who never had a Registration, whether because they’re immigrants or because their parents couldn’t or refused to buy them one, can purchase their own at any time—for the same cost.”
“Tried it, failed,” Tamara says.
Lynell remembers that policy, but it was before Tamara’s time. “Three chairs have changed since then. It’s a new committee,” she says.
“Not really,” Tamara answers. “Even the new members make decisions primarily based on monetary value. A policy like the one you suggested would discourage parents from buying a Registration for their children. They’d think ‘Well, they can buy their own later in life.’ Soon, it wouldn’t be as standard to have and use a Registration. People wouldn’t buy until they needed one, meaning they may never buy one at all. Fewer people would have and use Registrations. The company would make less money. Citizens would start questioning the success of such a system. Rebels would have time to corrupt minds and sway opinions before someone spends their own money on a less acceptable right of control. When people don’t grow up with something from childhood, they’re less likely to accept it as adults.”
Lynell allows herself a moment to process Tamara’s words before pushing the disappointment back. “Okay, so we pass a policy that any immigrants can buy their own when they become a citizen.”
“I suggested that already.” Seeing Lynell’s frown, Tamara adds, “Off the record. I wanted to test the waters for hungry sharks before going swimming. It was instantly obvious the others would shut down any policy that would invite immigration without producing enough money in return.”
“But this policy wouldn’t invite immigration?”
“Not at the price point. The immigrants that the oligarchs want to keep out of the country won’t be able to afford it.”
The meeting continues with Lynell making suggestions that Tamara consistently refutes. Her untouched tea is cold by the time Tamara announces she has an appointment and stands, gesturing for the door.
“Listen, I like you, Carter,” Tamara says, her hand on the doorknob. “I admire your passion. But you’re fighting against rivers that have been flowing for longer than you’ve been alive. Be mindful of the rapids. I don’t want to see ya’ drown.”
“Right.” Her fondness of Tamara isn’t enough to quell the desire to punch the next person who tells her she’s too young and naive to be the Elysian heir. “I like you, too, but don’t forget that I own these rivers, and I have no intention of letting half the country drown.”
She leaves then, stealing the last words for a second of satisfaction, which fully evaporates by the time she’s back in the car. In its place is the anxiety from that morning, now doubled in intensity. The ride seems to pass quickly, Lynell lost in thought, fighting a tickling dread that she won’t win this fight. She needs allies, and she needs votes. She’s not comfortable taking the risk of the code yet, given Zach warned her how lethally dangerous it could be. The code is her last resort. Regardless of Daniel’s advocacy for using it, she simply can’t. Not yet. Not at this stage, without enough information on how it even works.
Seeing Ramsey waiting as she steps inside the house reminds her that there are several other problems, with their own swarms of anxiety, that she has to deal with.
“What is it?” she asks, draping her silk cardigan over the couch.
“I found him.”
She kicks off her shoes. “Who?”
“The bomber,” Ramsey explains. “I know who he is.”
“Wait, really?” Her full attention snaps to him. “Who is it?”
“Thomas Johnson.”
The name sounds familiar, but Lynell can’t place it. It’s the type of familiarity that leaves a coldness at the base of her stomach rather than a warmth through her limbs. “Was he on the list?” she asks.
Ramsey shakes his head. “He doesn’t have a history of hatred toward you, your family, or the Registration. He’s a local religious fanatic. You might recognize him as the man who Registered Ellery Klein six years ago.”
The memory surfaces at the same moment Ramsey speaks, and the coldness turns to nausea in Lynell’s gut. “The Sin-Fighting Warriors.”
Ramsey nods.
“Why would he bomb Eric’s house?”
“I’m still working on that. Our best men are looking for him, but he seems to have gone underground. I doubt he’ll try anything else now that we know who he is.”
Ramsey runs through his process of finding Johnson and their next steps, but Lynell only half listens. She knows the information is meant to put her at ease. Knowing the enemy’s identity is better than trying to protect against a ghost, after all.
But Lynell’s thoughts are consumed with the fact that Thomas Johnson killed Ellery Klein, Sawyer D’Angelo’s wife. The man who targeted Lynell is probably the sole person D’Angelo hates more than anyone with a Registration, including Lynell herself.
D’Angelo and Lynell now have a common enemy. Meeting with her is now pretty much a necessity.