BREAKING NEWS: FLORENCE FRENCH, 33, SOLE SURVIVOR OF LAST NIGHT'S MILENA SEBLE MASSACRE. VIGIL TO BE HELD FOR THE NINETEEN VICTIMS OF PSYCHOTIC MASS MURDER.
She dropped the paper before her, pausing for a moment before looking the man in the eye. "A headline from twelve years ago, Secretary Cromwell? If that's all the dirt you have on me, you may as well leave now."
The man behind her was kindly in his appearance, and yet Florence French knew him to be anything but. Aaron Cromwell was a fierce fighter when he had a cause, and a man as aggressive as a tiger when he had a goal in mind – and his goal that day was the greatest one an American could ever hope to achieve: the White House itself. No, there was no love lost between the two whatsoever. Respect, however, was a thing which Florence had found could be far more useful – but that was faltering as well.
"This is no news, Senator French; the entire nation was wowed by how well you managed to rebuild your life after the tragedy you have endured. Finalizing your divorce, going back to school, being elected senator of New York while still a student. You have made history. You truly are a modern Cinderella."
She smiled upon hearing this. The years had been kind to her, that was no lie; it was a miracle what a million dollars and some recognition had done for her. The book deal had come first, of course, followed by the scholarships – some from feminist organizations trying to help women in her situation, some from humanitarian groups who just wanted to right the wrongs that had been made to her. By the time she had reached college, she'd had enough in donations not to spend a single dollar from the million she had been given.
The campaign trail had been even easier.
The trick to a successful election season, Florence had known, was a strong platform or recognition, and she'd had both. She was oh so touched by the goodness the people of America had shown her, particularly in New York, and all she wanted was to pay them back. The tragedy had shocked her so, pushed her out of the comfort of being a republican house wife and firmly into the grasp of the democratic party and into being an anti-gun lobbyist. It isn't real until it happens to you, had been her campaign platform, but if you wait until you're the victim of gun violence, it's already become too late.
She'd won the election by twenty-five points, something that had never even come close to having precedent in history.
Even after her election, she had continued to prove herself worthy of America. By 2026, two years after her election, she had managed to pass anti-gun legislation in a Republican senate and shut down multiple anti-abortion bills, as well as defended the interests of women and the LGBT community. Her potential candidacy had been a topic of conversation for over a year before she had finally announced she would, in fact, be running for president.
The election, just like everything else, would be a clinch.
"Unfortunately for you, Senator French, I don't believe in Cinderella stories."
"Then I must have changed your mind."
The civility that had filled the room moments ago had vanished almost completely, and, all of a sudden, it felt as though the air had frozen over. The gentleness in Cromwell's eyes had turned to steel, and the sweetness to Florence's voice had grown as sharp as the deadliest of swords. Within moments, a cordial meeting had turned into a verbal showdown – a mere show of power. That was the nature of politics, however; knives and daggers hiding behind a series of handshakes and polite, curt smiles. It was nothing but smokescreens and two-way mirrors, moves and countermoves.
"I'm afraid not. I had my team investigate everything about the crime scene and the way it was found, and I must say I was quite shocked by the results. Would you care for a read, Senator?"
She knew the note already; it was the one thing she thought she might never forget. It would come back to haunt her – she had always known that – but that would not be today. She was determined that, no matter what, by the time the note surfaced, she would be dead. Florence French did not care much for her reputation; when she was gone, they could drag her name through the mud all they wanted and she wouldn't mind. What she craved was what she had been denied her entire life – what, once she'd been given a taste of it, she could never forget. She wanted power.
Would you rather leave this casino as the sole survivor but with the money you desperately need, or leave the casino with all the remaining players alive but as poor as you were when you came in?...
Cupcake Maybelline Sprinkles
Valentina Daley
Dawn Everheart
Addillyn Devella
Ren Cayse
Sushi Wasabi Salmon
Aoife Callahan
Adam Burke
"Strange, isn't it? Your name isn't on the list. Almost as though the final decision was up to you. It's not enough to convict anyone, but it does raise certain question – tell me, Senator French, how did you pay for your education? For your campaign? Money leaves a trail, you know, and if I'm right, yours might be bloodier than all the others combined."
"My book deal, mostly; scholarships, partly. As far as the campaign is concerned, most of the money came from grassroots donors and left-wing PACS, just like anyone else."
She had never spent the money – she had realized, once it was hers, that she never could. Instead, it had been hidden deep in her memory, burned along with the silvery grey case on an abandoned island in the middle of the sea. He couldn't find her, but he was right, and she knew it. Questions would be asked, and her answers could never please anyone. The crows and vultures would gather around her body, pecking away every last vote until she was left with nothingness. Evidence in politics was futile; it was all about the case one argued, the language they used. And Aaron Cromwell was indeed an impeccable speaker.
"I wonder: how do you think would happen if the world saw this note? I don't think it would go well for you, but you might disagree. Perhaps you might even be right –"
"I would be," she said, but she had already made the mistake. The lady doth protest too much, methinks. They were the words of Shakespeare, perhaps, but that did not make them any less relevant to her in the morning. She had answered too quickly, felt rather than thought, leaped to the defensive when she should have knocked away each of his blows. There would be no throwing him off her trail now – no point in denying her crimes.
"Keep the note, Senator," he continued. "I made copies anyway. Isn't the digital age just wonderful?"
He turned to leave, but she was faster than the old man wobbling away. Soon, she was standing between him in the door, her eyes turned to steel against him. "I could destroy it," she said. "I could find the copies, too, if I wanted. You aren't the only one who has people."
"I'm sure you could," he said, "but that won't change anything. I'm afraid we both know what we know."
"I could kill you," she whispered. "Here and now, maybe; later, perhaps. It could come in your sleep, a poison you breathed in without knowing – at your age, a heart attack is all too common, you know – or maybe it could be right outside my office, in a horrible hit and run. I'd call the ambulance, of course – poor Florence French, faced with yet another potential death – but it would come too late. Do you want to die, Secretary Cromwell?"
"One way or another, my death really isn't that far off, Senator French. But I don't think you would do that." He paused. "It was easy, wasn't it? When all you had to do was take the money and leave? You and I both know you don't have what it takes to actually do it, though; to know that there is blood on your own hand, rather than on someone from whom you could distance yourself afterwards. You can start anew after a horrible decision – but not after murder."
She moved, watching as he crept away into the darkness, a grin on his face; his was the look of victory, hers of the defeated. When he finally left the building altogether, Florence knew once and for all that, no matter how she put it, this was no one's fault but her own.
All of it – every single moment – was about her. Her and her selfishness; her and her greed; her and her overwhelming craving for power. For as long as she could remember, she had wanted her chance to write history, but when had she become the sort of person who thought that evil could be forgiven? She had flown far to close to the sun – of that, there was no doubt – and now she was falling, below the sea itself and straight into the depths of the Inferno.
If nothing else had made it clear, the mirror would have. When she looked into it, she could see everything; the way in which time had caught up to her, turning her blonde to grey and her skin to leather. The way in which had made her eyes grow baggy and purple without makeup, her mouth hard and stern. When she looked at herself, Florence French could no longer see innocence, nor could she goodness. All she could think of when she looked at her own reflection was the horrors she was capable of.
We carry the weight of our sins upon our faces. The words of Wilde, this time, but true nonetheless. She could see the severity in her eyes, the selfishness in her smile – perhaps they were only there for her to see, for her to know, but to them they were true nonetheless. When she looked at herself, dressed in her finest silks and jewels, she did not see strength or elegance, but weakness. She saw the shadow of what she had once been, and she mourned for the girl she once thought herself to be. It seemed to Florence that she was far, far more beautiful when she'd had nothing to her name than when she had the entire world at her fingertips.
She had always thought she'd belonged to herself; she had never realized that meant she was the property of her own appetites.
When she closed her eyes, Florence saw it all, from the gun and the bleeding bodies to the taunting sneer on Cromwell's face. His words echoed in her mind over and over again, maddening in their silent shouts. Nobody could hear them, and yet she felt as though they could all read them upon her face. The entire world knew what she was – of that, she felt convinced, and of that, there was no way out. When she let herself exist only in the darkness, it felt as though the entire world had been present when her sins had finally caught up to her, threatening to destroy her for good.
But no one else was in the room where it happened. She could do whatever she wanted – by the time she was done with things, it would be the word of a bitter old Republican who couldn't face the face of change against that of America's sweetheart. She lifted the lighter to the note, and watched as she burned away the memories; scorched out her guilt; turned any evidence that might be used against her into ash.
History had its eyes on her – and, deep down, she knew it would see her burn.