Free The Heir by Paul Robertson Page B

one at a time, toward my office door. I opened and closed it with only necessary force, and sat in my chair. I took a deep breath and stared straight ahead.
    Straight ahead was my computer screen, and the first thing I saw was a six-digit number. Then I saw that it was an e-mail from Pamela. Then I saw it was Eric’s credit card balances. And then I didn’t see anything for a few moments.
    “Jason?”
    Katie was standing in the doorway, staring at me, and at the shattered monitor in pieces on the floor, and at the splintered paneling where it had slammed against the wall. I stared back at her.
    She saw that I was unharmed, and the alarm in her eyes faded. “I think we should talk.”
    I was standing. I wilted into my desk chair, and she sat on the couch.
    “I can’t do this,” I said.
    “Why not?”
    “Being the king is too hard.”
    “You don’t know how to be a king? You can learn.”
    “I don’t know why to be a king.”
    “There’s no answer to that, Jason.” She was speaking very gently, holding in her own frustration. “You were born into your family. Your father made his decision and wrote his will. That’s why.”
    “It isn’t. It’s no reason I have to accept it.”
    “I was hoping we were past that.”
    I held out my hand to her, and she took it. “We are,” I said. “Somehow it happened.”
    “I will always be with you,” she said.
    “But I need a reason to live this life that’s been dropped on me. It won’t work unless I know why I’m doing it.”
    “What would a reason look like? What reason did you have before?”
    “I’ve never had one. I just can’t ignore it anymore.”
    “What reason did your father have?”
    It was time. “Melvin was murdered.”
    Her mouth dropped. “By who?”
    “I don’t know.” I couldn’t stop myself from wondering if an innocent person’s first thought would be about the victim or the killer.
    But she was shaking. It was all too much. I had my arms around her, and one of us was sobbing, or maybe both of us. I wanted so much to get out of it, to go back, but I couldn’t.
    Instead I was compelled to fight back. And through the night, I slowly realized how strong that compulsion was.

8
    Wednesday morning at nine o’clock I sat in Fred Spellman’s smoke-free office planning the destruction of the governor. Not everyone in the room was in agreement.
    “Jason. There is no cause for reckless behavior.” Fred’s glare was withering. Too bad he was a minority of one.
    “He started this war.”
    “He did not . . . this is not a war. I told you this is simply a negotiation.”
    I was a majority of one. “I’m not interested in negotiating. I want to take him down.”
    He leaned back in his chair, and I could feel the whole building lean with him. He shifted the glare from wither to pierce . “All right, then. First. Do you even have any idea how to overthrow a powerful politician entrenched in office?”
    “No.”
    “Second. Have you thought through the consequences? Who do you expect to take his place? What if a prolonged fight shuts down your state contracts? What about Senator Forrester?” He leaned forward a little. “And what if you lose?” Then back again. “Those are just a few questions, and I could list more. You’ll be letting a bull loose in a china shop. An angry bull.”
    “We’ll deal with whatever happens.”
    “We will?” He moved forward, his wide, angry face jutting toward me. “We will? You have no idea what forces would be unleashed.”
    “Then I’ll find out.”
    His eyes went cold. “Third. Why? This is not necessary. We can make a deal. That’s what he wants.”
    “I said I’m not interested.”
    “You should be.”
    “I don’t want a deal.”
    “You’ve only been in this position less than a week. You are not ready to make a decision like this.”
    I stood up from the armchair and looked down on him. There was some point over his desk where our glares met, and it must have been pretty hot