Lindsay pulls back with a tiny cry and holds her fingers up to her swollen lip. Her eyes are an apology. “Sorry. It split.” She gives me a crooked grin, then just looks at me with raw tenderness, vulnerable and real. I hate the torn lip. I hate the bruises. I hate that her face looks like a calico cat, orange and yellow, mottled – yet her eyes glow with an alert love that I hope I’m sending back to her, amplified.
I brush her hair off her forehead and smile right back, blood racing, heart strong and true.
“She’s back,” I whisper, low and sincere. “Lindsay really is back.”
Chapter 16
Drew
Lindsay and I are standing outside Harry’s office, about to go in for the monster of all debriefings. So is Monica, along with Silas and Mark Paulson. The hospital discharged Lindsay yesterday and we spent a quiet night at her house. Monica and Harry were in D.C. I slept in Lindsay’s bed, just holding her.
Neither one of us had nightmares.
Harry’s public relations strategist, Marshall, is in the meeting. And, of course, two guys with faces made of putty who could be anyone and no one at the blink of an eye.
Lindsay reaches for my hand for support – needing it, offering it? Who cares? The difference doesn’t matter. She eyes a tray of pastries in front of Monica.
We walk into the room, all eyes on our linked hands. I don’t blame them. Between my broken finger and Lindsay’s sling, we’re a sight.
The first person I stare at is Marshall.
He looks away.
Not a single piece of paper is in the room. The curtains are drawn, and Marshall has a projector with a USB drive attached to it. Silas will be given the USB drive after this meeting, then he’ll be put on a plane for D.C.
Nothing we’re learning isn’t common knowledge to a certain level of insiders in power.
But just in case...
Mark and I share a look that is nonverbal bureau-speak.
We’ll talk later. He’s already explained most of the basics to me behind the scenes. So basic there’s really just one concept to remember: I was set up. Disentangling that will be a mess, but it’s a manageable mess, especially with his help.
Lindsay and I settle into our seats. Her fingers entwine in mine, our hands resting on my right thigh. Her bad arm is in a sling, the bullet doing its damage but nature taking its course. Young and strong, in great shape and determined, Lindsay will have a full recovery. The doctors said so.
And I’ll make sure it happens.
On her right sits her mother, who is as stone faced as the woman can get. It’s anger, not Botox, driving the look.
“Let’s start. Anya has cleared my schedule -- ”
Monica shoots Harry a nasty look.
He seems bewildered, blindsided, like a little boy who can’t find his pet. “Er, I mean Celia, my new assistant, has cleared my schedule for as long as this meeting takes.” He cocks an eyebrow at me. “And I suspect that will be a very long time.”
“Let’s hear Marshall first. I’ll fill in the details afterward, and Paulson and Gentian can give more, too,” I reply.
“What about Jane?” Lindsay asks. “She should be here.”
“That conniving little liar?” Monica huffs. “Absolutely not.” Monica wears an all-cream suit with a pleated wool skirt, gold piping matching her earrings, bracelets and necklace. Her hair has recently been colored, the cut and style capable of remaining intact in an F5 tornado.
She looks like a wall of anger.
“I suggested it. She’s been cleared of everything but hacking charges, and once she testifies against Nolan Corning and his minions, she’ll be cleared,” Marshall says, to my surprise. I have to give him a sliver of grudging credit.
A sliver.
“It wasn’t her fault. Wasn’t Anya’s, either,” Lindsay says, her voice trailing off as she frowns, clearly still processing the emotional fallout.
Monica reaches for Lindsay’s good shoulder, eyes blazing in contrast to the compassion in her voice. “You’re very kind to worry about your friend, but she betrayed you. Double-crossed everyone. Put your father’s campaign in jeopardy and your life in danger.”
Notice the priority in that sentence?
“So did her disgusting, traitorous mother,” Monica adds.
Harry looks like someone just kicked him in the balls.
Lindsay’s taken aback by her mother’s ferocity. “Jane didn’t have a choice, Mom. They basically kidnapped her.”
“She fed them information about you. Anya handed you off to those pigs.” Monica’s eyes crawl over Lindsay’s face and upper body, inventorying in a very obvious way, punctuating the severity of her remarks.
“Because she was protecting Jane!” Lindsay protests.
“Don’t you dare defend that bitch!” Monica hisses, red-faced and livid, jumping to her feet and leaning in. She and Lindsay are inches from each other, their chests heaving, the scent of Monica’s custom-blended perfume rising off her like distorted heat waves on Southern California asphalt in July.
“That ‘bitch’ was my assistant for most of my political career!” Harry roars, recovering from Monica’s vengeful dominance. All eyes turn to him, though Monica is slower. “Anya was not a traitor. She did what she did because Corning’s men threatened Jane’s life. She came to me as soon as she could.”
“Not good enough, Harry,” Monica replies. It occurs to me that there is something much deeper going on regarding Monica’s feelings for Anya. This isn’t just about Lindsay.
This is a grudge match.
“It’s good enough for me. Anya’s never working for me again. Her career in political administration is destroyed. Her daughter may face federal hacking charges and their lives are ruined. That doesn’t erase the good work she did for me for years, and not one damn iota of this conversation has anything to do with moving on and finding a way to come out of this mess on top,” Harry announces.
Marshall clears his throat. “Moving on, then...”
Monica makes a sound deep in her throat that makes it clear she has not moved on.
Lindsay bites back a smile and squeezes my hand.
“Here are the facts as we know them,” Marshall says, looking across the table at Mark Paulson. “Four years ago, Nolan Corning created an exploratory committee to look into running for president. By the time the committee was done, they honed in on their biggest obstacle: Senator Harwell Bosworth.”