Grieving Campaign Manager Exposes Corrupt $40M Candidate's Public Smear Campaign At Political Saloon Rally When Secret Inheritance Clause And Parrot Uncover Lover's Hidden Poisoning Letter
Harrison, his face flushed with anger, tried to shout over the growing din of panicked donors. “This is outrageous! A blatant attempt to derail my campaign!”
“Then prove us wrong, Harrison,” I said, my voice calm despite the adrenaline coursing through me. I looked at the donors, who were now actively huddling and making calls. “Let’s move this discussion into the back office. Let’s inspect the original documents.”
The PAC head, still looking furious, gave Harrison a pointed glare. “That sounds like an excellent idea, Mr. O’Loughlin. Unless you have something to hide?”
Cornered, Harrison had no choice. He glared at me, then at Luke, before giving a curt nod. “Fine. But only essential personnel.”
He tried to keep the press out, but several determined journalists, sensing blood in the water, pushed their way through the swinging doors into the campaign’s cramped back office. It was less an office, more a storage room, filled with stacks of flyers, a large locked metal filing cabinet, and a single, cluttered desk.
Macbeth, the campaign’s African Grey parrot, had been brought back here, too. Its cage sat on a small table near the desk, covered with a sheet, but the bird was awake. It let out an indignant squawk as people crammed into the small space.
Harrison paced, running a hand through his hair. “See? Everything is in order. There’s nothing to hide.”
“Then show us the original trust documents and your campaign’s financial ledgers, Mr. O’Loughlin,” Luke said, gesturing to the filing cabinet.
Harrison waved a dismissive hand. “Those are in the main office, downtown. Not here.”
“Not even the ones pertaining to Eleanor Kincaid’s trust?” I asked, a knot forming in my stomach. He was stalling.
Just then, from under its sheet, Macbeth let out a series of surprisingly clear imitations.
“Just sign it, Victoria!” the parrot squawked, mimicking Harrison’s deep, gruff voice perfectly. “Nobody checks the *other* desk!”
Everyone froze. Harrison spun around, his eyes wide. Victoria, who had been standing silently by the door, gasped, pressing a hand over her mouth.
The parrot, oblivious to the human drama, ruffled its feathers again.
Then it mimicked Victoria’s voice, higher and softer: “A simple note, Harrison. Then we’re clear. My *note* for your *plan*.”
It was an uncanny imitation, the tone, the inflection. It was them.
Harrison looked absolutely terrified, his gaze fixed on Macbeth’s cage. He took a nervous step toward it.
“Macbeth, quiet!” he hissed.
But the parrot wasn’t finished. It squawked again, this time in a mix of both voices. “The bottom drawer. Locked. The private papers.”
My eyes immediately went to the cluttered desk in the corner. It had three drawers on the right side. The bottom one, indeed, looked to have a small, brass lock.
Harrison saw where I was looking. He lunged for the desk. “Get out! All of you! This is private campaign property!”
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