Page 79 of Capitol Matters

Near the buffet line, a man toppled over as though knocked unconscious. A ripple effect swept across the room. A half dozen people caused an uproar with noisy puking or slumping over onto their respective tables.

The plague had similar symptoms, manifesting as a stomach virus that kept people bound to their beds or toilets for days. But it was not this fast-acting.

Holland joined me in standing and staring across the room while chaos erupted. Shrieks and shouts preceded a stampede for the exits. Maximus leaped up, as well, bellowing commands from a few feet away.

Mass panic ensued.

Holland grabbed my arm and pointed at someone nearby. Tobin, who had changed into a clean suit he must have kept in his desk, crumpled amid a group of retreating guests. Those around him didn’t stop, stumbling and stepping over his fallen form.

I climbed onto my chair, then the table to clear a line of sight to the collapsed investigator.

Like cattle running blindly, no one took notice of the human impediment underfoot. I’d heard of people killed that way: stomped into pulp as a casualty of survival instincts gone wild.

A sweep of both arms parted the mass of bodies, directing them to either side of where Tobin lay huddled.

Hollandraced around the table and into the horde, and I opened a path for her, too. The scurrying guests got the idea and redirected on their own, leaving me to dodge drink glasses and place cards as I walked across the table and leaped off to charge after Holland.

Arriving beside Tobin found him worse for wear. He was bruised and his clothes torn, but the most concerning thing was the foamy bile bubbling along his lips. I glanced back at the table where Jacoby Thatcher remained unmoved, finishing his wine.

“Well, fuck,” I muttered.

“You knew about thechampagne.” Holland stared me down from across her desk. Shadows smudged around her exposed eyes, a testament to a difficult weekend dealing with the press as news reports rolled in. The gala had been sabotaged and was widely regarded as recklessly dangerous, turning public opinion against Maximus and his vote.

By Monday afternoon, toxicology reports came back. Those who fell ill at the gala had been dosed with a concentrated form of the plague virus. The disease was not typically deadly, but the unfortunate few who partook of the tainted drink were failing fast.

This private chat in Holland’s office wasn’t an interrogation—not officially, at least—but it might as well have been. I was sweating as profusely as if Holland had a spotlight aimed at my face.

“You knew there was something wrong with it, didn’t you?” the investigator prodded.

I shook my head, refusing to sit and feel further caged into this discussion. “Besides that I wanted to dump it all over Tobin’s smug self?” I huffed a breath. “No, I didn’t know anything about it.”

“You stopped me from drinking any,” Holland continued despite my denial. “You even tried to talk me out of it. Why?”

She’d suspected me that very night. All but accused me of hiding things from her. She’d told me once she didn’t think I was stupid. I knew for a fact she wasn’t, either.

“You even sent me to talk to my father before you went to the fountain!” she blurted, every bit a detective on the case. “Didyoudo it?” The revelation pulled her features slack.

“DidIpoison the champagne, then dump it?” My nose scrunched. “Is that a legitimate question?”

She’d been ramping up since we started talking, but my incredulity slowed her. I had additional holes to punch in her logic—like where I would get concentrated plague in the first place—but kept quiet while she processed.

I was tempted to hang the blame where it belonged. The Capitol had security cameras, likely even in the banquet hall. Reviewing tapes from the gala would show me chatting up Ripley and Maggie, and Ripley adding his toxic backwash to the fountain. But, if they had that kind of evidence, Holland wasn’t letting on. She looked more perplexed than ever.

Finally, I decided to give the dog a bone, or at least put it off my scent.

“Look, Holland,” I began, “I’m a suspicious son of a bitch. Comes in the ‘Life of Crime Starter Kit.’ If your dad wanted to make himself look good throwing a fancy Capitol shindig, there was bound to be someone who wanted to use that same opportunity to make him look bad.”

“You think it was the Bloody Hex?”

I shrugged, and Holland nodded.

“There have been rumors since they broke Ripley Vaughn out of prison,” she said. “He’s known to have a kind of poison ability. Very old magic. And the timing of it all is convenient, to say the least.”

Her mental gears were turning.

“How is Tobin, by the way?” I asked. Not my smoothest transition, as proven by her reaction.

“Don’t pretend you care, Fitch. And don’t try to change the subject.” Her scowl lasted only a moment before she confessed in a softer voice, “He’s not well.”

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