13,413 Words: Lisa MacLeod is in New Jersey, and Jack finds himself in a tight spot

I began this morning by writing Lisa MacLeod into the story. I mean, it obviously had to happen sometime, so I added a quick postscript to the scene I finished yesterday:

Annalise’s disquiet would have deepened even further had she bothered to check the output tray of the neglected looking photocopier in the staff room. Not all things are what they appear, and the photocopier had been anything but neglected of late. Stacked in the output tray was a set of posters for the recent LOUD AS HELL music festival, an annual New Jersey event and the highlight of the summer for many residents of the rotten state. This year had proved to be the worst musical experience imaginable, as the headline act ‘Goatwhore’ was not the only thing making headlines. During the show, a woman had wandered the crowd, clearly deranged and the victim of either an unskilled hair colourist or some kind of practical joke gone wrong. The woman was later identified as Lisa MacLeod, a member of the inner circle of the much maligned Doug Ford government in Ontario.

The Minister of Tourism, Culture, and Sport, apparently acting in an official capacity, approached various members of the crowd, asking if they knew who she was. After receiving dozens of no’s, the politician had snapped, screaming at a man later identified as Eugene Melnyck, owner of the Ottawa Senators,“I am your member of provincial parliament, and you are a f*cking piece of sh*t and a f*cking loser!” Had Ethan had wifi access earlier in the day, he certainly would have seen Lisa MacLeod’s Twitter non-apology, in which she stated “Let me set the record straight, I gave Eugene Melnyk some feedback at the LOUD AS HELL music festival and I apologized to him for being so blunt. I have serious concerns about the state of our beloved Ottawa Senators! We need to get our team back on the road to winning the cup!” Ethan probably would have wondered what the deal was with the band Goatwhore. Were they slut shaming goats? Or shaming human sluts by calling them goats? He certainly would have wondered what the owner of the Ottawa Senators was doing at a LOUD AS HELL music festival in New Jersey on the eve of a massive trade deal that by all accounts had nothing to do with his piece of shit team. And why was a member of the Ontario Provincial Government dispatched to the same Jersey music festival? In what ‘official capacity’ was she acting, exactly?

Then, a return to the past as we learn some more about what happened to Jack after he was seized by police from Mrs. Randall's house. 

The day that Jack’s life changed forever was a hot, humid day in July. But Jack felt none of the heat in the chilled, white room he found himself in. He didn’t know where he was, but he knew he was in very deep trouble. He had expected the police, had known as he crouched in Anna’s bedroom on the upper floor of Mrs. Randall’s house that they were coming for him, and as such, had felt strangely calm as they took him away from what had passed as a home for the last 7 years of his life. He had expected the police, and he wasn’t afraid, at least, he wasn’t afraid until they sped past the Eden Drive police station and kept on going. When he looked out the back window and saw the police station retreating, and eventually no longer visible, Jack had felt a chill run down his spine.

And then....

The officers tossed him into a room, and as the heavy door slammed shut, he heard a lock click. He wasn’t going anywhere, not until whoever had brought him here decided it was time for him to leave. Once again, he took in every detail of the room, which wasn’t much. The walls and the floor were white and clean. There was a white table with metal legs, a chair on either side. He took one of the seats and looked around. There was no bed, no sink, no toilet- so not a cell. An interrogation room? Maybe. There was a camera in the top corner of the room, facing the white table and the chair in which he sat, a red light blinking. He stared into the camera fiercely, intent on showing whoever was watching that he wasn’t afraid. He sat bolt upright in the chair, placed his hands palm down on the table, and waited for whatever would come next. He didn’t wait long.

The lock clicked, and the door swung open. Jack turned his head to take in the man who entered the room. He looked old, like, possibly 50, and was dressed in a crisp suit. His hair was longer than that of the police officers, but it was neatly clipped and his salt and pepper beard was tidy. He carried an air of authority into the room, and Jack sat up straighter in his seat. This was the man in control of the situation. He looked at Jack with piercing blue eyes that were cold and devoid of emotion, and although Jack was intimidated, he held that gaze until the man looked down at the file in his hands.

The man took the seat opposite Jack, set the file on the table and began to speak.

“Hello Jack,” he began in a whispery voice that Jack, later in life, would unconsciously mimic. Jack looked away from the man for a moment, to look at the file. He saw his own name written on the side, and the words ‘Project Runaway’ written at the top of the file. What the hell?

The man saw that Jack had noticed the file, and he smiled. It was an unkind smile, and Jack did not return it. He looked away, feigning boredom. Jack knew that few things incensed powerful adults more than adolescent ennui, and he used the only weapon he could access in this place. It might not be wise, but he wanted to get under the man’s skin. He was surprised when he heard the man begin to laugh, a warm chuckle that seemed out of place. Jack looked up and saw that a genuine smile was on the man’s face, his eyes crinkled with good humour and something that looked almost like fondness. If Jack didn’t know any better, he would have thought that the man actually cared about him. But surely, this was just another manipulation. Jack stayed frosty, his piercing grey eyes back on the camera in the corner. He wanted to look at anything but that man’s face. His eerily familiar face that was stirring something in the back of Jack’s mind. He didn’t care for it. He didn’t care for it one bit.