Page 125 of The Americana Playbook

I burst into tears and sink down, burying my head in my knees. For a few minutes, I stay in that position on my own.

Abby sinks with me. “You were akid.”

I was a kid when I went in. We all were, despite our different ages. But our innocence and naivety about the world were taken on day one.

And I saidnothingwhen I could have. No matter where I went, I couldn’t outrun my past. I just carried it like a burden instead of realizing that if I told someone what life was like there, maybe things would be different. Maybe Abby and her parents would’ve been awarded justice.

Maybe it would’ve ended.

“Oh, Parker. My family filed a wrongful death suit, and it, it went nowhere. We tried to talk to news stations, papers, politicians?—”

“W-who?” I ask. “Who did you reach out to?”

Abby’s eyes drift to the side. “The governor at the time. A few state senators. A congressman who represented the district. There was a bill he wanted to move forward and it didn’t go anywhere.”

I pull out my phone and search for the county Horizons falls under. And then I search the congressional representative.

Camden Holdings.

“There wasnorecord of her being sick at that place, none. Not a stupid note or anything. And no one would come forth and say otherwise.” Abby tries to smile. “No one until now.”

I’m already running in my head. But like Mr. Foller said, I always had a skewed perception of reality. With my hands balled into fists, I squeeze tight so the blunt end of my nail digs into the flesh of my palm. I feel the pain. This is real.

Slowly, I rise, and Abby does too. “I think I should talk to your lawyer.”

* * *

“Yes,” I say with a sigh to the lawyer on the phone. “I’m Candice and Walter Montgomery’s daughter.”

I’m the president’s daughter. And I was put in that place.

He feeds me details of what he can, why Abby’s family lost the suit, why they decided not to appeal it. “You have to understand that these kinds of investigations are long and costly. They haven’t been in the position financially to move forward with thesameevidence on appeal and have it go nowhere.”

“I want to help. I’ll pay you on their behalf, no matter how much it costs. And,” I add, “I’ll testify.”

I don’t expect his hesitancy. “It’s best if you start from the beginning.”

So I do. I hang up and rush into my room, digging for the duffle that holds the cookie tin I had stashed in the back of my closet when my things from Atlanta arrived, and carry it with me back to Fitz’s den where I clear off what I can of the desk, and take out some fresh printer paper. I search online for a calendar of the year I turned seventeen. On the top of a page, I write downday oneand the date. The first anniversary of Honey’s death, and then I put both hands on the box. For the first time in over a decade, I open it and smile.

And I write.

I write until the sun has come up and a new day has begun. I write with purpose—for kids who are still there. I write with apology—for Sarah and the so many who have probably been lost to the system. I write for myself, until my hand aches and my eyes feel like they’re about to bleed, because I deserve this too.

I write until I fall asleep. The next thing I know, the sky outside the window is bright and my doorbell is ringing.

I scramble out of the den, wondering who Secret Service is letting ring my doorbell.

I’m confused because Nick appears just as surprised to see me as I am to see him. “Oh. Hi, Nick.”

As strange as it is to see him, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s on the short list.

“Good. I’ll tell Fitz you’re okay.”

I shake my head. “What?”

Nick sighs. “The guy sent me eight panic texts and called me at six AM before his practice. Said he hadn’t heard from you since yesterday morning.”

“My phone was on silent and downstairs,” I ramble. “I’ll send him a message now?—”

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