She just blinks, over and over, as if in a trance. “You’re...agreeing with me?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes narrow. “Is this a trap?”
I sit on the ground next to her, my gun belt digging into my hip. It’s a taunting reminder of the past hours. “No.”
“No one ever agrees with me.”
“I am.”
“Then do something to help me.”
“I am.”
She huffs.
“But I’m also hurting you, and I’m so sorry for that.”
She inhales sharply. “I have no idea what to say to that.”
“Promise me you won’t run away again, okay? Okay, Lindsay?” My turn to plead. “You promise me that, and I’ll promise you this: I’ll help you leave.”
“What?”
It’s the way she says that single syllable that breaks me. It snaps me in half. The word comes out as a tiny gasp of disbelief, a plea, a prayer.
“I mean it,” I say, my voice thick with emotion. I can hear the change between us as much as I feel it. Nothing we’re saying erases my fury about what she did to me or fixes her trust issues, but my perspective has shifted in just these handful of minutes.
I never thought I was part of the problem.
I always assumed I was part of the solution.
Harry and Monica want Lindsay to turn back time and be the good little girl she was four years ago. And if she can’t comply, they’ll bend her like a pipe cleaner and make her into a facsimile of what she once was, just long enough for the cameras to record the perfect family.
The American Dream.
Whether Lindsay wants that or not.
I can’t stop them.
But I can’t let her run away.
Which means I have to rethink everything I thought I knew.
As the first few sunbeams turn to a blinding shard of light, I look at Lindsay.
She’s staring out the window, her eyes washed out by the sun, making them transparent.
They’re the only part of her that is.
Chapter 5
“Make-up! We need more under-eye concealer here! What on earth did you do last night, Lindsay – stay up for thirty-six hours while smearing charcoal under your eyes?”
Close.
Monica is her bright, cheery self as we get ready for the press conference in Sacramento, California’s capital, where Senator Harwell Bosworth will declare his candidacy to run in the primaries for President of the United States.
Lindsay looks about as excited as wet toilet paper.
“Sorry, Mom,” she says, but she doesn’t mean it.
Paulson, Gentian, and twelve other guys on my team are here with me. All but Paulson and Gentian are assigned to watch Monica and Lindsay. We’ve expanded our role.
Harry’s got his own separate team.
Mark, Silas and I have a specific target: we’re watching for any hint of people going after Lindsay. The extra team within a team.
She hasn’t had any new texts from those assholes. Harry’s been briefed on the fingerprint issue with Lindsay’s brake lines. It took a while to explain how someone could set her up like that, but Harry quickly absorbed the information.
And now here we are.
Showtime.
“Senator Bosworth,” Paulson says, nodding to Harry, who stops cold in his tracks. His face splits with an incredulous grin.
“Thornberg! You’re Thornberg’s grandson. You have a different last name, though. Paul?” Given that Harry’s known for remembering faces, this is a bit of a surprise.
“Mark Paulson, sir.”
“Agent Paulson!” Harry snaps his fingers and shakes Mark’s hand vigorously. “You made one hell of a bust with the El Brujo cartel.” He pulls Mark in and says quietly, “Really helped me with this campaign, that whole mess. Having him wiped out boosted confidence in law enforcement and my numbers rode the coattails. Thank you for that.”
Mark nods exactly once. He hates praise.
“What do they have you working on now, Paulson?”
“He’s working for me,” I say, interrupting.
The senator gives us both a half grin. “Good work. You’re done with the DEA?”
Paulson shrugs. “A little time in the private sector never hurt anyone.”
“You’d be a good contender in politics, Paulson. California will have an empty senate seat in two years.”
“Yes, it will,” Monica says smoothly, appearing at Harry’s elbow. She’s gorgeous, sophisticated and cool in the perfect ice-queen way that First Ladies need to possess, with a switch she can flip to be more down to earth. “And James Thornberg’s grandson would come with built-in political capital.” She takes in Paulson with an evaluative quality I don’t like.
Don’t like it one bit.
“Agent Paulson -- ”
“Please. Just Mark, Mrs. Bosworth.”
“If it’s ‘just Mark,’ then it’s ‘just Monica,’” she jokes, flipping her hair off her shoulder. I can’t tell if she’s flirting, or worse.
“Have you met our daughter, Lindsay?”
Worse.
Lindsay stands up from her makeup chair, white bib around her neck, and grins at Mark with the eyes of an evil clown forced to pretend to be normal.
“Agent Paulson. We met yesterday.” She shakes his hand.