Page 179 of House of Cards

He probably thinks this is all so fucking noble. Mr Bad Ass, dusting Zoey off and setting her back on her feet. But all I feel is the familiar ache of being thrown away by someone who was supposed to care.

First my step father. Then Ricky, choosing to ghost me instead of asking for help. Now Smith.

Guess I’m just that forgettable.

“He’d have stayed if he could,” Troy says quietly, like he can read the devastation written across my face. “But he’s needed back at?—“

“Please.” I take another sip of coffee, using the heat to burn away the tears threatening to spill. “He’s a fucking coward. Let him run back to his precious casino. It’s not like he doesn’t know where to find Patricia.”

Troy’s jaw tightens. “It’s not like that.”

“Isn’t it?” I set my mug down harder than necessary, coffee sloshing over the rim. “I’m a complication. And Smith doesn’t do complications, does he?”

It hurts more than I thought it would to say it out loud. But from the way Troy’s face hardens, he knows all about Michelle. How Smith took care of that particularcomplication.

But under the hurt, beneath this sick, hollow feeling in my chest, something’s stirring. Something that feels a lot like ‘fuck this shit.’

Smith thinks he can just move me around like a fucking pawn. He thinks he knows everything. Has all the answers. All the power.

He’s wrong.

And I could be wrong, too.

I’m assuming Ricky is dead, but I can’t know for sure.

And I need to know.

Because that’s all I could think about last night, head pounding from all the tears, throat scratchy from all the sobbing.

What if Ricky’s still alive? Hurt, scared, but still breathing.

I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t at least try to find him.

“I need to go back to the city,” I tell Troy.

His coffee mug freezes halfway to his lips. “Absolutely not.”

“I’m not asking for permission.”

Troy sets his mug down and turns to face me fully, his expression serious. “It’s for your own good.”

“So, what…my brother is gone, presumed dead, and I’m supposed to just...what? Accept it? Move on? Become Patricia fucking Dyer and pretend none of this ever happened?”

The careful control I’ve been maintaining finally cracks as I start shaking. “I can’t do that, Troy. I can’t just leave him behind.”

“Smith said?—”

“Smith can go fuck himself!” The words bounce off the walls, harsh and final.

Troy stares at me for a long moment, and I can see him weighing his options. Loyalty to Smith versus...what? Pity?

“Even if I wanted to help you,” he says finally, “—which I don’t…my orders are to make sure you get to your destination.”

“Beaver Falls.”

“Beaver Creek.”

“Whatever,” I mutter, draining my coffee before stabbing in his direction with a finger. “You can go fuck yourself too.”