chapter 19
It was one thing to face the ugliness with her own eyes. It was another thing entirely to see the shock and horror on someone else’s face.
With shaky fingers Summer stripped off her wet blouse and slacks. If there had been time, she would have welcomed the oblivion of a long, steamy shower, but that was out of the question with the girls at Tracey’s.
Because the job always came first.
After drying off quickly, she slid on a robe and searched through her clothes, settling on a gray suit and a blue blouse. Last came a pair of plain black walking shoes. She caught herself with a frown when her hand lingered on the gift her sister had given her for Christmas two years before, but what was the point of wearing a delicate silver bracelet when your arm looked like something from a Frankenstein movie?
“Summer, can I come in?”
Not Gabe. Not now.
She tightened the belt of her robe. “No. I’m getting dressed.”
Behind her the door opened. “Too damned bad.”
She felt him behind her, felt the heat of his powerful body, but she didn’t turn around. “I need to dress.”
“Don’t stop on my account.”
“Very funny.” Her arms locked across her chest. “Where are the girls?”
“Next door at my place, watching TV. I can only stay a few seconds.” His fingers brushed her chin, tilted her face gently. “I just wanted to be sure you were okay.”
“I’m fine.” She waited for more of the pity she had seen back at the pool.
“Don’t brush me off,” Gabe said roughly.
No pity there, she thought. Impatience and irritation, but no pity.
She pulled the towel off her hair, tossing it onto the bed. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Maybe you need to. Tell me what happened, Summer. Let me in.”
She closed her eyes, hit with the need to pour out memories that wouldn’t leave her alone.
Glass shattering. Voices screaming. The smell of gasoline, and then agony as flames swallowed her arm whole.
“Go away, Gabe. I—can’t do this.”
He bit back a curse, and then his hand settled gently on her shoulder. “You think I don’t know how it feels?” He laughed grimly. “Trust me, you’re wrong.”
“How could you know? You’re perfect, strong, every inch of you.” Heat flared in her cheeks. “I’ve seen your body, remember? You were using my shower, and there wasn’t anything I could miss.” She shook her head. “I don’t want to talk about this.”
Maybe talking would help . . . at some point. But not now—not with this man who had a knack for reaching inside her and seeing what other people didn’t see.
“Your call.” His hand lifted from her shoulder. “But I’m hoping you’ll change your mind.” He picked up a fresh towel and draped it over her shoulders. “By the way, which field office do you work out of?”
She didn’t answer.
“I don’t suppose Mulvaney is your real name, either.”
“You know how this works.” Her voice was suddenly tired. “Going undercover means just that. You keep the lies simple and everyone gets the same story. It’s the only way you stay focused.”
A muscle flashed at Gabe’s jaw. “I know the rules, Summer. Hell, I wrote a few of them. But the trick is knowing when to break the rules.”
She couldn’t stop herself from searching his face. Something whispered that she could trust this man, and he’d never let her down. “The rules are made for a reason. Breaking them isn’t an option.”
His face was unreadable. “I used to think so, too.”
She pulled the towel from her shoulders. “And now?”
“And now . . . I have to go.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “The natives are camped out next door and they’re getting restless.”
“Did you see her scars?”
“Of course I saw them.”
Sophy leaned forward, hugging her legs. “How do you think she got that way?”
Audra went to the bathroom and found a dry towel for Sophy, who was dripping on Gabe’s couch. She didn’t have a clue where you got scars like the ones on the nanny’s arm, but she knew it had to be from something terrible. “Gee, I don’t know. Maybe I’ll ask her,” she snapped.
“You mean it?”
“Of course I don’t mean it. You saw how upset she was in the pool. That’s why neither you nor I are going to bring this up again.”
Sophy frowned, petting Liberace, who was curled up on her lap. “You’re acting different. What did you talk about with Ms. M?”
“Nothing important,” Audra said airily. “Just women stuff.”
Sophy’s eyes widened. “Like about boyfriends and thong underwear?”
Audra stared at her sister. “What do you know about thong underwear?”
“I know that Tiffany Hammersmith wears them, but I think they’re stupid. I mean, when you sit down, they’d scratch like anything.”
“They’re not supposed to feel good,” Audra said importantly. “They’re supposed to look good.”
“But they’re under your clothes. Who’d see them there?”
Audra rolled her eyes but managed to bite back a sharp comment.
“Oh.” Sophy sat up a little straighter. “So you call up your boyfriends and tell them what you’re wearing. For underwear, I mean. Like in phone sex.”
“What do you know about phone sex?” Audra demanded. “Don’t tell me Tiffany Hammersmith told you about that, too.”
“Only a few things. Most of them didn’t make sense.” Sophy chewed her lip. “I mean, why would you want to make moaning noises over the phone while you took off your clothes?”
“Never mind,” Audra snapped. “And I don’t want you talking to Tiffany anymore. Not ever, understand?”
“She has a pink Hello Kitty purse,” Sophy said wistfully.
“Forget about her purse. Not ever,” Audra ordered sternly, the way only an older sister can.
“Then you have to explain about phone sex.”
Audra made a strangled sound. “Just watch Buffy and be quiet, will you?”
Sophy stared at the television thoughtfully. “Do you think Buffy has phone sex?”
Snorting, Audra pulled away Sophy’s towel and wrestled her to the floor. Liberace shot out of reach as the two girls rolled around on the rug, tickling each other without mercy, which was how Gabe found them when he opened the door a few minutes later.
“Hey, what happened to the two sweet-tempered honor students I left in here? Did someone kidnap them?”
Sophy appeared from beneath a towel, grinning ear to ear. “It’s us, Gabe. We’re still here.”
“Thank goodness. You had me scared. It’s time for you two to get cleaned up and dressed before your mother gets home. I’ll go up to the house with you.”
Sophy’s smile faded. “Isn’t Ms. M coming?”
“Soon as she dries off, sugar.”
“Is she . . . mad at me?” Sophy’s lower lip trembled.
“No. But I’d say it’s up to Summer to decide if she wants to talk about what happened.”
“You mean, no more questions?” Sophy said slowly.
“I think that’s fair. Don’t you, Audra?”
Both girls nodded stiffly. Sophy studied her bare toes. “I guess I probably shouldn’t ask her about phone sex, either.”
Audra elbowed her sharply, while Gabe fought an awful moment of panic. He wasn’t going to have to field questions about biology and dating behavior, was he?
He was saved by Sophy, who shot straight into a new topic. “Can we stay here until Buffy is done? She’s about to nail a silver spike into this really bad vampire. Not the good vampire.” Sophy frowned at Gabe. “Are there good vampires? I mean, if they’re good, how do they—”
“Be quiet and watch the TV,” Audra cut in briskly.
A sudden vibration in Gabe’s pocket signaled an incoming call on his secure cell phone. Keeping one eye on the girls, he moved back to the foyer outside his small kitchen. “Morgan here.”
“This is your friendly local pizza man.” As Izzy spoke, Gabe heard a mariachi band and beeping car horns in the background. “I’ve got some news.”
Gabe moved into the bathroom, pulling the door half-closed. “Hit me.”
“First, the report on the box left in Cara O’Connor’s office. The forensic team found traces of oil-based pigment mixed with hydrogenated soy oil.”
Gabe frowned. “Translation?”
“The oil was a commercial hydrogenated variety generally used in fast-food production. There was a trace of mayonnaise blended with relish and spices.”
“Special sauce?” Gabe chuckled. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I’m doing my own tests to narrow the location. Each restaurant has a characteristic oil signature determined by local pollution, building age, and a dozen other factors. Do you have any idea how many Mickey D’s there are in the greater San Francisco area?”
“I’m getting clogged arteries just thinking about it.”
“So you understand why tracing this particular batch of frying oil and special sauce may take some time.”
Gabe stared at the back of Sophy’s head. “What about the pigment traces on the box?”
“It appears to be printer’s ink, with a solvent used to enhance dispersal and penetration.”
“Books?” Gabe mused.
“Newsprint. The range of fairly cheap oil-based pigments, as opposed to higher-end ink types, suggests a tabloid.”
“So our mystery man—or woman—wolfs down a combo meal while scanning the latest story about celebrity liposuction and Martian babies? Not much to go on, Izzy, even for you.”
“It’s a start. I imagine Ms. Mulvaney should be receiving her preliminary findings shortly. Do me a favor and act surprised, okay?”
“Will do.” Gabe checked on the girls, who were engrossed in the sight of Buffy decimating an army of undead, while their ferret backed in and out of a brown paper bag, tail twitching happily.
“How are the girls?”
“Fine. Liberace’s destroying a sack and Buffy’s about to nail the head demon, saving the world as we know it.”
“A good show. Cara O’Connor’s children have excellent taste.” Izzy’s voice hardened. “Which brings me to my next piece of news. Not everyone is thrilled about Senator Winslow’s upcoming nuptials. One of his key fund-raisers resigned two months ago, ostensibly over salary issues, but office gossip says it was because he opposed the marriage.”
“Why? You don’t come with a better record than Cara O’Connor’s.” Gabe frowned. “Do you think it was personal?”
“Bingo. His sister was active in fund-raising, too, and it seems that she had romantic aspirations for the senator, with an eye toward sleeping in the main bedroom at the White House. I’m told a lot of women consider Senator Winslow prime marriage material.”
“That would be motive. But did these people have access to Cara’s medical history?”
“One more thing for you and Summer to check out while you’re down in Mexico. I’m faxing through some pictures. Take them with you, show them around. See if anyone remembers them visiting the clinic.”
“You got it.” Gabe peeked out as he heard noises in the living room. “We’ll have to wind this up, Izzy. Buffy just made hamburger out of the evil hordes. Liberace’s doing a pretty good job on that sack, too.”
“In that case, I’ll give you the rest in shorthand. My sources tell me that one other person has been opposed to the senator’s involvement with Cara. Winslow’s brother, who happens to be his policy advisor, feels that Cara’s record as an assistant DA is undistinguished and may harm the senator’s presidential run. Greg Winslow was pushing for the senator to marry another woman four years ago—think old Virginia money and sterling pedigree. When the wedding plans were nixed, his brother almost quit.”
Gabe watched Liberace race through the room, circling the paper bag. “I remember Greg Winslow was always a stiff neck. Discredited, Cara O’Connor would fit nicely with his current plans. We’ll look into possible connections with him during our clinic visit, too. Meanwhile, see what you can dig up on him, like policy disputes with his brother, money problems, or alcohol issues.”
“Senator Winslow isn’t going to be happy if he finds out we’re digging for dirt on his most trusted advisor.”
“No kidding. Tate has always valued loyalty. This stays between us for now.” Gabe rubbed his neck, listening to the final sounds of Buffy tackling the underworld hordes. “What about Cara? Does she know?”
“I doubt it.”
“So how did you find out?”
“A few key sources and amazing electronic skills,” Izzy said dryly.
“Hold on a minute.” Gabe covered the phone and looked out, stunned to find Audra standing motionless just outside the door. “Is something wrong, Audra?”
“Sophy has to use the bathroom.” Her hands were clenched tight. “Why were you talking about my mother?”
“I’m dealing with my toughest supplier,” Gabe lied calmly. “He’s opposed to roses, but your mom doesn’t know that yet.” He lowered his voice. “He’s trying to push for hybrid lilies, mainly because it will cost twice as much.”
“So you were talking about flowers just now?”
“Afraid so. What do you think, I’m a spy or something?”
Sophy appeared behind Audra. “I’m sorry, but I really need—” She winced, pointing to the bathroom. “You know.”
“Sure, honey. Be my guest.” Gabe stepped aside, then winked at Audra. “Go ahead and send me the price list for the lilies, but I can tell you now that Ms. O’Connor wants roses, so you’re wasting your time.”
“Got an audience, do you? In that case, I’ll sign off. Watch for those pictures. You can download them via your cell.”
Audra continued to stare at Gabe after he ended the call. “That’s really all you were talking about? Just flowers and stuff?”
Gabe nodded. “Never underestimate the importance of good flowers. Now tell me why you’re so worried.”
“My mom is really upset about something. I hear her get up and pace at night. Other times she and the senator argue, but they change the subject whenever we come into the room.”
“People who are about to be married have private things to discuss, Audra. That doesn’t mean they’re keeping secrets or that they’re worried.”
“Maybe.” Audra studied her sandals. “Yesterday at the museum, Ms. Mulvaney went a little nuts, just because I was a few minutes late. Explain that.”
“Your nanny was doing her job. Senator Winslow is a very important man, and since he’s marrying your mom, that means you are important, too. Unfortunately, security has to be a part of your life from now on.”
Audra’s shoulders tensed. “You think someone would try to kidnap us?” She snorted. “No way. That stuff only happens on Alias.”
“I wish you were right.” Gabe chose his next words carefully. “If you’re worried, you should talk about this with your mother. Talk to Senator Winslow, too. Get the facts, and you’ll feel better.”
Audra sighed. “I tried to talk to my mom once, but she got this stricken look. Like Bambi on the train tracks, you know what I mean?”
Water flushed inside the bathroom. “Does Sophy feel anxious about your mom, too?”
“Not really. She’s just a kid, after all. Things don’t seem to bother her.”
The door swung open. Sophy peered from Gabe to Audra. “Is something wrong?” She glanced toward the living room. “Did Liberace do something bad?”
“He’s fine,” Audra said. “But we need to finish packing. Mom will be here in about an hour.”
“I’m taking my ballet shoes,” Sophy said as she clipped Liberace to a leash for the trip back to the house. “I’ll find Mom’s old dance costumes, too. Then we can have a recital at the ranch.”
Audra sighed. “Count me out. I hated ballet. I’d rather learn the tango. Or maybe I’ll just try kickboxing.” She nudged Sophy with her elbow. “Come on. Last one to the house is liverwurst pie.”
Gabe followed them outside, scanning the lawn and wondering where on earth the stuff about kickboxing had come from.
Tate Winslow put down his phone with a frown. He had probably ten more calls to make before he left his office, along with five letters to dictate.
He knew he’d better thrive on the insane pace, because this was just the beginning. Assuming that he actually decided to run.
He sat back in his chair and picked up a small toy armadillo given to him by a colleague in Washington. The heavy shell made him smile wryly. Having body armor was crucial in a town that thrived on a high-octane mix of power, sex, and gossip. Over time Tate had learned to build his own protective shell.
But what about the future? Sophy and Audra deserved a father, and Cara needed a husband. God knows he wanted a family. It had been far too long since he’d lived in a house that rang with children’s laughter and racing footsteps. Sharing a sink cluttered with perfume bottles and face cream seemed wonderfully exotic after years of camping out alone in hotel suites and expensive but impersonal rental homes.
Yet here he was, poised for the biggest political push of his life, a process that would swallow up almost all of his time and what little privacy he had left. It was an insane time to consider getting married.
But he had never wanted anything more.
The yellow light blinked on his phone. “Yes, Margo.”
“Your brother’s calling, Senator. Line two.”
“Got it. When I’m done, let’s knock out the rest of these letters. Then you can go.” Leaning forward, he punched a button. “So, do we have our support for the wetlands conservancy or not, Greg?”
A chair creaked. Tate could almost see his chief political advisor dig into the pile of papers and press clippings that accompanied him everywhere. His ammunition dump, Greg called it.
“Better than I hoped. I’ve located two corporate sources ready to back your initiative, along with half a dozen grassroots conservation groups. It will make damned good press—more important, none of it will cost the public a cent. I’ve set up two interviews for you next week, but there’s just one problem.”
Wasn’t there always? “Who’s out for blood today? Sanders? Ashford?”
His brother gave a dry laugh. “Neither. This enemy is worse, Tate. It’s your own lack of time. Your schedule is completely booked, and I don’t know where to fit in anything else.”
“You and Margo can find a way to shoehorn them in. Something else bothering you?”
Papers rustled. “I ran into another reporter from The Wall Street Journal. He asked when you were going to formally declare.”
“And you put him off, politely but firmly.”
“Of course.” There was a brief hesitation. “He told me there’s a feeling you aren’t serious about becoming president. He was basically trying to bait me into an exclusive story, but it’s worrisome nevertheless. He also said . . .”
“Go on, Greg.”
“Damn it, he said a friend of his would double whatever salary I was getting from you.”
Tate studied the stuffed armadillo. “Nice offer. I trust that you told him no.”
“Of course I did. I’m not going anywhere, especially over to the media. We’ve had our differences, but that’s ancient history now. This means there’s more negative buzz about your presidential race. Someone could be trying to mow you down early.”
“Nothing we can’t handle. You’re better at your job than you realize, Greg.”
“It would be easier if you’d finalize, Tate. You’ve got a shot straight to the very top, and voters are ready for fresh ideas and new energy. I’m getting forty or fifty calls a day from people who want to volunteer for your campaign, even before it’s officially announced. Mother called today and said your demographics are off the chart, according to one of her lobbyist friends. Our only challenge will be timing. You need to set a date for the official announcement before these negative rumors snowball. I know you’re distracted with the wedding coming up—”
“My focus is hardly in question,” Tate said impatiently. “I’m taking the minimum time off, exactly as we agreed. Damn it, this is August recess, my only time free.” Why did he feel guilty for trying to have some semblance of a life?
“True enough, but the clock is ticking, remember that.”
“I’ll think about a date, Greg.” Tate glanced at his watch. “Gotta go, bro. Five more letters to dictate. Is there anything else?”
“Have you heard from Mother? She left a message here and sounded upset.”
Tate stared at the photo of his brother and his mother hiking in Alaska. “I spoke to her a while ago. She had to drop some things at Cara’s, and apparently there was some kind of problem with a dead rat in Cara’s car. Don’t worry, it’s nothing. She’s probably stressed from all the wedding preparations.”
“In that case, I’ll see you at the airport later. I’ve got those health-care documents you wanted to review.”
“If I don’t hurry, I won’t make it to the airport. Getting Cara to take three days off was no easy matter, either.”
“She has that Costello appeal coming up, as I remember. Any problems there? You’d hope a conviction of racketeering, vice, trafficking in human illegals, and a few counts of murder would stick.”
“Costello’s going down and staying down. Cara and her people built a solid case against him, and this appeal has no merit.”
“I heard one of the earlier witnesses wants to change his testimony.”
Tate frowned. “Really? Cara didn’t mention that to me.”
“She probably forgot with all the distractions. Now get finished there and go meet her.” Greg Winslow sighed. “As for me, I’ve got a date with two angry lobbyists. With a little luck I can keep them from strangling each other over Caesar salad and grilled chicken Florentine.”
“Rock on.” Smiling, Tate put down the phone. Then he picked up a file and started fleshing out answers to mail that couldn’t wait.
Cara stood at her office window watching a layer of gray haze climb up from the Pacific. The shot fired at the house had left her terrified, and she was determined to get the girls away as soon as possible. She had always considered herself a strong woman with a solid moral compass, but the last weeks had begun to tear away her strength, filling her with doubts.
As the gray haze continued to climb, she thought about the girls. How could she bring her children into danger? How could she let them suffer for the difficult job she did? And how could she inflict her past on Tate if it could harm his career?
Audra’s school gift was back in place on her desk, the clay body repaired. Unable to sleep, Cara had spent the hour before dawn gluing the fragile chips back into place.
Sighing, she picked up a photo of her girls laughing on a beach in North Carolina, and another of Sophy in a recent dance costume. Her throat tightened at the thought of one of them caught unaware in her bedroom.
Struck down by a bullet.
With tears in her eyes she picked up a family shot of her older sister outside her rustic house in Oregon, flanked by her three handsome boys of seventeen, fifteen, and twelve. Melody and her husband were ecologists with the forest service and their kids lived a life right out of Wild Kingdom. They were safe and sheltered, surrounded by beauty, and their boys had learned to paddle a canoe almost as soon as they could walk. It was still hard for Cara to believe that Mel’s oldest son, Jordan, was heading off to college in the fall.
As she studied the photo, she made a mental note to call her sister and catch up on all the family developments this weekend. Too many months had gone by since she and her sister had spoken.
There was a low tap at her door, and her assistant opened it, elegant in gray pants and a gray cashmere sweater. “Tony called. He wants to talk to you about the Costello appeal. And you also have a visitor,” she announced grandly.
“Who?”
“Me.” Looking tan and very fit, Melody, Cara’s sister, strolled through the door. “Since I never hear from you, I decided to swing by on my way back from a conference at Berkeley.” After a tight hug, Mel moved back to study her sister. “So why aren’t you sleeping?”
“Is it so obvious?”
“To me it is.”
“The girls are fine. Sophy loves her ballet and Audra—well, she’s going through some teen angst, but I’m sure it will pass.”
“Don’t talk to me about teens. Next year I’ll have three of them, God help me, even if Jordan will be off at college.” Mel sank onto a chair by the window, studying Cara. “You’re working too hard. You and the girls should come up to Oregon and we’ll take you camping. Jeff and the boys will get you unwound with some mountaineering. Since Jordan has his own canoe now, he’d take you on the ride of your life.” She touched Cara’s arm and held it. “We’d all love to have you. Don’t worry about calling first.”
“It sounds so wonderful, Mel. I’d love to, but . . .” Cara gestured at her crowded desk. “I’m locked in here.”
“Think about it. The offer always holds.” Melody took the family picture from Cara’s hands. “The boys have grown since this was taken. Michael and Chance are giving kayak lessons this summer, can you believe it? And Jordan is busy getting ready for college.” She handed the picture back to Cara. “Hard to believe how things change. It seems just yesterday that I met Jeff, and you graduated from law school.” She stood up, pacing the small room. “I can’t stay. I’ve got to be back at the airport by five for my flight. Besides, you have work up to your ears.”
“You can’t leave yet. Let’s at least have coffee while you fill me in on the boys and all the news.”
“Next time.” Mel smiled wistfully. “I can see how busy you are. Your assistant had three calls on hold and by now there are probably five waiting. Take care of yourself, okay?”
Their eyes met.
“I owe you,” Mel said quietly. “I’ll never forget.”
Cara hugged her sister. “Don’t say another word.”
“You never told, did you?”
“No. I made you a promise, and I’ll keep it.”
Mel slid the strap of her computer case over her shoulder. “Are you keeping Tate and his family in line?”
“Greg and Amanda have been very helpful in planning the wedding.” Cara frowned. “You and Jeff and the boys are still coming, aren’t you?”
“Couldn’t keep us away. I always knew you’d marry someone important—the same way I knew you’d be someone important.” Mel frowned. “Greg and Amanda haven’t been making you jump through hoops, have they?”
“Of course not. Amanda has been wonderful about organizing the reception, and Greg put together the guest list.”
“Just you, Tate, and four hundred of Amanda’s friends,” Mel said wryly. Then she shook her head. “Don’t mind me. I’m just grumpy from traveling, and I miss my boys. Who knew I’d turn into such an old crone?”
“You’re not a crone, you’re wonderful. Give them all my love.” Cara looked at the picture. “You look so happy together.”
“We are.” Mel smiled gravely. “Get some rest. I expect to see a serenely radiant bride when I get to Wyoming.” She turned at the door. “It was the right thing to do.”
Cara took a deep breath. “I know.” Most of the time, Cara thought.
After her sister left, she stayed at the window for a long time, lost in thought.
The kitchen was gleaming.
Fresh salsa cooled in clay pots and beef strips were marinating for carne asada. Patrick Flanagan hummed as he finished pounding dough for the yeasty French loaves Sophy and Audra loved so well. He took great delight in the knowledge that he was very, very good at his work.
Imelda peeked inside. “I’m finished. Do you need anything before I leave?”
“Not a thing.” Smiling, Patrick offered her a freshly baked croissant. “Take one for the road.”
Imelda sighed. “You are very bad for me, Patrick.”
“When you’re in my kitchen, there’s no willpower allowed.” Flipping his towel over one shoulder, the chef leaned back against the granite sink. “Did you hear that truck noise earlier? Ms. Mulvaney told me one of the workmen dropped his hammer and broke an upstairs window.”
“I heard the window break. It is like a gunshot, I am thinking. And so much glass in the bedroom. It is good that one of the workmen came soon after to help me clean or I would still be working.”
“One of the workmen? Funny, I never knew one who was anxious to do cleanup.”
“Oh, he is a very nice man. Very strong hands. If I am ten years younger . . .” Imelda smiled, mischief in her eyes. “But I am not, so I will drive home to my cats and my crossword puzzles instead. You are leaving soon?”
“In half an hour,” Patrick said cheerfully. “Or I may wait until Ms. O’Connor comes home. I like to be sure the food is hot when they’re ready to eat.”
“Such a conscientious man.” Imelda nodded approvingly. “Some woman will be very lucky to have a fine husband like you, Patrick.”
“Oh, I’m too busy to get married. Give me the field any day.” Smiling, he waved good-bye to the housekeeper, then went back to his perfectly rising dough.
The chemistry of making bread was always an intricate challenge, and Patrick Flanagan liked to test himself. It was pleasant to be close to his new family, too. For so many years he had been without roots or clear purpose.
But no longer. As he kneaded the soft dough, he thought about the powder in the jar he kept at the bottom of his leather satchel. The little bottle hidden on a shelf in his apartment.
His hands tightened, squeezing dough out through his fingers like strips of pale skin. All it would take was a few pinches.
Control, he thought sharply. No sudden changes of plan. There would be time for action soon enough. The gunshot had gone perfectly. His friend had left his kayak, climbed onto a rock out of sight, and fired as planned. The warning had been delivered.
The dead rat had been Patrick’s contribution. He still had to smile at the look of sheer terror on Amanda Winslow’s face in the garage. One minute she was snapping out orders, the next she was babbling in terror. So delicious.
As a boy he’d never been able to lie well. But now he was a man, and he’d discovered he had a real gift for shaping his lies to suit different people. He considered his next lie as he kneaded the dough one last time. At first, all that had been asked of him was simple surveillance, acting as a set of eyes and ears inside the house, but soon other assignments had come. It had been easy for him to read Cara O’Connor’s personal mail, then pass on the information in his neat, detailed handwriting. It had been simple to hint to Audra that she was overweight and ugly, but of course he loved her anyway. How kind he had been, sympathizing with Cara O’Connor’s busy schedule and her terrible regret at missing such a large part of her girls’ day. He laughed when he thought how subtly he had fueled all her regrets.
Delicious, he thought. He loved being a chef, but his new career was so much more satisfying. He would receive another twenty thousand dollars soon.
“Bread’s done,” he said happily. “Now to the oven.”
He stared around his gleaming kitchen. Yes, he’d have a lovely meal ready and waiting for his favorite family.