brother’s help to recount votes in his governed state in order to win. Really who knows what terrible secrets are still hidden beneath the stories of 911 or on the oil fields of the Middle East. The trust is almost gone; hence the duo’s campaign slogan would simply read “Trust.” Just try to unearth any skeletons or snakes, as said before—squeaky clean.
Most of the past year of Floyd’s life was spent at twenty-five hundred dollar per plate dinners with Anderson and businessmen wanting to gain an ear of a possible future president. He hated it but was a necessary evil—they needed the campaign funds—millions of them. Because of this, time with his family was nearly nonexistent. Even this past Christmas was cut short and the last time he made love to his wife was almost a year and a half ago. There just weren’t enough hours in the day for his family and his political career to coexist. He had to prioritize and it wasn’t ever easy. He too missed that special bond with his wife of twenty-seven years—the wife that stood by his side in every decision he has ever made, even guiding him when morality seemed to dissipate in the wind of political lies. It was his wife Grace that he loved dearly and he too could see the tension forming between them. Wining and dining, debates, conference calls with god who knows who, little sleep, meetings and more meetings took their toll on their marriage. There was just no time for even himself yet alone Grace. She stood by her man though, with big smiles through thick and thin. She just might one day be the first lady; little did Floyd realize that was the last thing Grace ever wanted. Scott Norwood came to this conclusion as well after he read a personal email from Grace
. . .
Chapter 8
H is remark for calling himself an idiot earlier was the fact he removed his hat and put on another pair of glasses and his lucky baseball cap, to someone watching, in his mind, this was a sure tell sign of someone changing his disguise. “Idiot, it’s the little things like that, that will be trouble down the road,” he thought to himself. Seventy-one miles later clocking in at just under two hours and fifteen minutes, he was in his driveway. He made just two stops along the way, stop one was to check on his little girl and slip a gag over her mouth, the other was to the laundry mat to pick up his clothes that were placed in the dryer earlier that day. A clever ruse so he thought, for when he pulled into his driveway, he popped open the trunk, grabbed the big canvas laundry bag and the detergent and calmly walked into his house. He wished he would have thought of this earlier it would have saved him from trying to come up with a last minute scheme during his third attempt. That time he panicked when he entered his driveway for he simply didn’t think it through. He ran into his house and pondered the situation. He pondered his dilemma way too long, for his prized little blonde died from heat exhaustion in the back of his trunk. Not this time, it was pure brilliance, so he thought, and this time his prized little blonde was safely inside the house. He carried the bag down into the basement, the bag that contained his little girl. She was still out cold. He moved her into a bedroom, a bedroom he finished not long ago, a bedroom for a little girl, his little girl. The room was far from perfect from a builder’s perspective and would have never passed inspection. The electrical work was shoddy at best, the drywall buckled near the top, the drywall tape showed through the bright pink paint, and the trim was uneven but the room was perfect for a little girl. There was a bright pink shag carpet on the floor, and the furniture was pine painted in white, trimmed in gold and not new, there were many scuffs marks on the legs from a vacuum cleaner maybe, and a few deep scratches on the bureau. The bureau was filled to the brim with little girls clothes in all types of sizes and
Most of the past year of Floyd’s life was spent at twenty-five hundred dollar per plate dinners with Anderson and businessmen wanting to gain an ear of a possible future president. He hated it but was a necessary evil—they needed the campaign funds—millions of them. Because of this, time with his family was nearly nonexistent. Even this past Christmas was cut short and the last time he made love to his wife was almost a year and a half ago. There just weren’t enough hours in the day for his family and his political career to coexist. He had to prioritize and it wasn’t ever easy. He too missed that special bond with his wife of twenty-seven years—the wife that stood by his side in every decision he has ever made, even guiding him when morality seemed to dissipate in the wind of political lies. It was his wife Grace that he loved dearly and he too could see the tension forming between them. Wining and dining, debates, conference calls with god who knows who, little sleep, meetings and more meetings took their toll on their marriage. There was just no time for even himself yet alone Grace. She stood by her man though, with big smiles through thick and thin. She just might one day be the first lady; little did Floyd realize that was the last thing Grace ever wanted. Scott Norwood came to this conclusion as well after he read a personal email from Grace
. . .
Chapter 8
H is remark for calling himself an idiot earlier was the fact he removed his hat and put on another pair of glasses and his lucky baseball cap, to someone watching, in his mind, this was a sure tell sign of someone changing his disguise. “Idiot, it’s the little things like that, that will be trouble down the road,” he thought to himself. Seventy-one miles later clocking in at just under two hours and fifteen minutes, he was in his driveway. He made just two stops along the way, stop one was to check on his little girl and slip a gag over her mouth, the other was to the laundry mat to pick up his clothes that were placed in the dryer earlier that day. A clever ruse so he thought, for when he pulled into his driveway, he popped open the trunk, grabbed the big canvas laundry bag and the detergent and calmly walked into his house. He wished he would have thought of this earlier it would have saved him from trying to come up with a last minute scheme during his third attempt. That time he panicked when he entered his driveway for he simply didn’t think it through. He ran into his house and pondered the situation. He pondered his dilemma way too long, for his prized little blonde died from heat exhaustion in the back of his trunk. Not this time, it was pure brilliance, so he thought, and this time his prized little blonde was safely inside the house. He carried the bag down into the basement, the bag that contained his little girl. She was still out cold. He moved her into a bedroom, a bedroom he finished not long ago, a bedroom for a little girl, his little girl. The room was far from perfect from a builder’s perspective and would have never passed inspection. The electrical work was shoddy at best, the drywall buckled near the top, the drywall tape showed through the bright pink paint, and the trim was uneven but the room was perfect for a little girl. There was a bright pink shag carpet on the floor, and the furniture was pine painted in white, trimmed in gold and not new, there were many scuffs marks on the legs from a vacuum cleaner maybe, and a few deep scratches on the bureau. The bureau was filled to the brim with little girls clothes in all types of sizes and
Similar Books
