Page 5 of Psyop Kings

I scream and scream and scream.

But no one ever comes.

Romy

A few days earlier…

How is it that I’m an impressive two thousand seven hundred and eighty-four miles away from Dad but I feel as though I’m still living under the same roof, forced to abide by his strict rules?

I stare at his last text.

Dad: For Eva’s birthday, she just wants the whole family together. I’ll expect you to visit during your winter break and stay through Christmas and New Year’s Day.

Not a question.

More expectations.

I’m tempted to reply to him that I have a job and can’t get off during the holidays, but I know that’ll infuriate him. Rather than having an adult conversation with me, he’ll push the inconvenience of his youngest child onto his young wife, Eva, or my older brother, Bastian, to bring me back in line. And if that doesn’t work, he’ll ship Sarai—his assistant who slays at earning her keep—out to California to fetch his unruly daughter.

I roll my eyes.

I’ve always been good. Always obeyed and followed his rules. But the first chance I got to escape from beneath his thumb, I was gone.

USC is pretty much heaven for me. Aside from check-ins with Dad, I can do whatever I want. I’d even won the war about myhousing situation. Since I was a kid, I’d dreamed of living in a dorm and having a roommate. The idea of it was completely foreign to me, which is exactly why I wanted to do it. Of course Dad wasn’t having it. He had to concede, though, when there weren’t any available apartments or homes close by.

“Dude,” a guy says from a row behind me, pulling me into the here and now. “Epstein didn’t kill himself.” He thumps his laptop screen. “I have all the proof too.”

The redhead girl forced to sit beside him sighs heavily. “Enough to make our case?”

I go back to ignoring everyone in my government class as I force myself to reply to my father.

Me: I’ll be there.

He doesn’t respond, which means he’s done speaking on the matter. As much as I secretly crave to goad him a little, I don’t. We’re already on shaky ground due to my “absurd” college choice. The last thing I need is him thinking LA is tainting my precious sensibilities. Sarai would have me packed up and sitting first class on the next red-eye flight back to JFK in the city. By Monday, I’d be enrolled in Dad’s Ivy League East Coast Alma Mater, following in the footsteps of the entire Langston bloodline since the early 1700s.

No, thanks.

“Sorry,” Professor Bolton says, her graying brown curls escaping her messy bun. “Traffic. Not all of us get to take the secret tunnels of the Hollywood elite.” She smirks and arches an eyebrow. “Anyone choose that one?”

“No,” the redhead girl grumbles, “but I’d love to change our project topic.”

On cue, the kid beside her says, “Epstein didn’t kill himself. Tell her, man.”

Professor Bolton, used to the goofy freshman in her class, shrugs. “That’s your research, not mine. And sorry, Miss Adams, it’s too late.”

I’m once again thankful for a good partner. It was by pure luck I was paired up with Megan Benson. We hadn’t spoken before in class until about two weeks ago. It was then I learned that even though she’s painfully shy, she’s a hard worker. Plus, we also discovered we share an unhealthy love for pumpkin pie frappes at the USC coffee shop near her dorm.

Speaking of Megan…it’s not like her to show up late. In fact, she’s usually here at least ten minutes earlier than me, her notebooks, pen, and laptop all placed neatly on her desk. If I’d met Megan before enrolling at USC, I’d have asked her to be my roommate. Tara is messy. Megan is annoyingly neat, just like me.

While Professor Bolton answers some questions from a few students regarding their projects, I quickly shoot a text to Megan.

Me: You better be getting us PPFs.

I wait for a moment and when I get no reply, I text her again.

Me: Seriously. Bolton is about to start lecturing. I’ll take notes but I was hoping you’d have time to hang after class to do a little research. This morning I came across an X account that’s full of conspiracy theories. It’s a goldmine.

When I don’t get a response, I try not to let worry turn my gut into knots. Professor Bolton starts scribbling down dates for upcoming tests on the smart board. I abandon my phone to quickly type them out. Professor Bolton’s writing is atrocious. It’s the only thing about this class I really don’t like.

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