Campaigning for Christopher Read Free

to leave Philadelphia, she’d done something worthwhile—something great, even—before she left. She wouldn’t be leaving in defeat. She’d be leaving in victory.
    “Keep the money,” she said through clenched teeth. “What do you need?”
    The man’s eyebrows had shot to his hairline, and he’d stood, frozen in shock, for just a moment before scrambling in his pocket to pull out a small, clear, plastic bag, which he passed to Julianne. She shoved it quickly in her apron pouch.
    “That’s Rohypnol. Put two tablets in his drink. It’ll knock him out completely in a little less than half an hour, which means you’ll have about twenty minutes to take him somewhere quiet.”
    Her eyes widened. Crusading for a cause was one thing. Prostituting herself was another.
    “I’m not going to—”
    “No! You don’t have to actually do anything with him. In fact, you don’t even have to get your face in the pictures. It’s better if you don’t. Just take some compromising shots, you know? His hand on your leg, a couple bottles of booze surrounding him. Loosen up his tie and mess up his hair. Lipstick on his neck. He’s rich, you know? And good-looking. He’s been able to present himself as this paragon of virtue, but he’s not. He’s not a good man. Just make him look . . . you know—”
    “Bad,” she bit out.
    “Bad,” confirmed the man with narrowed eyes and a satisfied smirk.
    “Expose him,” she whispered passionately. She imagined a photo shoot in her head—the sort of pictures that would look lewd and decadent. The sort of smearing that would destroy a man who deserved destroying. “Ruin him.”
    Black Hat nodded. “Exactly.”
    The idea of playing some small part in ruining this terrible man made her lift her chin higher, and she owned her mission like a duty on behalf of have-nots everywhere. Not just her and her people, but the children in the poor neighborhoods of Philly—the kids who’d had childhoods like hers, steeped in poverty and uncertainty. Why should a rich white man who’d been born into luxury be voted into a position of power under false pretenses? How could she allow it to happen when she had inside information. The simple answer? She couldn’t.
    “Yeah. I’ll do it.”
    The man passed the phone to Julianne with a brief nod.
    “I’ll be here— right here by the Dumpster—at ten o’clock. I’ll wait ten minutes.”
    “Don’t worry,” she’d said, tucking the phone in her uniform pocket, next to the tablets.
    Suddenly, out of nowhere, she had a moment of self-awareness—she was about to do a great thing if Christopher Winslow was truly bad, but a despicable thing if he wasn’t, and she was basing the entire decision on Black Hat’s unverified information. Looking up, she searched the man’s eyes, looking for reassurance. She didn’t find it. She didn’t find anything. His eyes were dark and cool, which gave her misgivings more gravitas.
    “How do I know you’re telling the truth? How do I know he’s so bad? I’ve never heard anything like this in the news, you know, about him.”
    The man smirked at her. “You want proof.”
    She nodded.
    He took his smartphone from his pocket and swiped his fingers across the screen. “Watch this.”
    She’d taken the phone from him, staring down at the video compilation. All the clips were of Christopher Winslow giving various speeches and statements to the press, but it was his words that quickly hardened Julianne’s face . . . and her heart:
    “Unwed mothers? Not my problem.”
    “Why should a woman be paid as much as a man?”
    “I’m qualified to tell you what a single, minority woman needs: a kick in the ass.”
    “Personally, I’m very comfortable firing people.”
    “I don’t think people of Hispanic origin are entitled to health care.”
    “Send them back to Africa.”
    “You don’t like it? Too bad. I know what I know.”
    “Whatever. I have more important things to do than worry about one poor kid