“You think Blaine, John and Stellan have that much power?”
“Not them, no. But the puppetmaster behind them? Yes. We need to figure out who’s controlling them. That should be the number one mission, aside from protecting Lindsay. Harry’s too wrapped up in his campaign and getting bad advice to realize it.”
Mark looks at the house, the moonlight bouncing off the gentle waves, illuminating the windows facing the ocean. He’s a man with two opposing duties. Loyalty to me. A promise to Harry.
Which one does he break?
Mark’s phone goes off. He looks at a text.
“Lindsay’s insisting on being driven to her friend Jane’s house in two hours.” His fingers fly on the glass screen, then he taps with finality and catches my eye. “Don’t even think about following her.”
Two hours. I have two hours, then.
“You’re not my commanding officer, Paulson.”
“And I’m not your employee anymore, Foster.”
“We’re at a standoff, then. And you know how standoffs work. Motivation always wins.”
“Motivation often kills, too.”
“I need to talk to her, Mark. She’s at risk. ” Appealing to reason generally works with him.
He’s on his phone again, his face screwed up into an intense grimace. “You can’t get caught. Lindsay isn’t just a senator’s daughter now. She’s about to be under Secret Service protection as a presidential candidate’s family member. You know the difference.”
“Which is why I have to talk to her now.”
Urgency and patience don’t go together well, but somehow I manage to harness both in this conversation.
“You know where Jane lives?”
“Apartment downtown, on the water. Yeah.”
“No,” he corrects me. “That’s her mom’s place. Jane’s in some middle-rent apartment complex by the I-5.” He gives me an address. “I didn’t tell you that.”
“You also didn’t give me two hours.”
“Didn’t do that, either.” He looks pointedly near a cluster of bushes at the edge of shore. I see a suspicious blonde ponytail poke up among the greenery.
“This conversation never happened.” I mouth the words Thank you.
“You never happened.”
And with that, one of my best friends walks away, leaving me by the ocean. I have a new mission.
I don’t exist.
“Drew?”
Maybe I do.
Her voice is tentative, so hesitant it’s like she’s peeling my skin off, one strip at a time.
“Drew. I saw the video. Oh, God, Drew.”
Chapter 17
Ever walk on stilts? That’s how it feels as I make my way across the sand toward the cluster of shoreline brush that dots the beach. The carefully landscaped grounds of The Grove have to give way to untamed nature at some point.
That line is here.
Right between our bodies.
There’s no moon tonight, just a cloudy grey sky that doesn’t leave witnesses. No one can see us unless they’re trying. I get the feeling Mark’s given the rest of the team explicit orders to give us space. I also know my time is limited.
Whatever’s about to happen needs to be swift.
Bold.
Complete.
I don’t say anything as I stop a few feet from her, waiting. None of this is within my authority. Lindsay calls all the shots.
“I saw.” The wind picks up her words and carries them out over the ocean, the words licked by salt water, diffused into the enormity, made part of the water and sent to parts unknown, where dragons live.
“You did.” I don’t ask.
“I saw enough. I didn’t need to watch the whole thing – oh, Drew. Why didn’t you tell me?”
And there it is. Four years of anticipating that question.
And it’s happening now.
I open my mouth to answer and nothing comes out. I widen my eyes to see her better and my vision pinpricks. I flex my hands to reach for her and I freeze.
I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t because four years ago, I couldn’t move. All I could do was watch.
And for the last four years all I’ve done is acted.
But I’ve acted alone.
“Don’t answer that,” she says quickly, berating herself. Not me.
“I – you – you deserve an answer, Lindsay.”
“I deserve more than an answer.”
My heart stops, waiting in my chest for orders.
“Drew, we deserve so much more. Who knew? I didn’t. You really couldn’t stop them. Worse – they made you watch. And then they hurt you, too.” She laughs. It’s the sound of chimes on the wind, the sweet release of relief, the mellifluous tone of someone who has given herself permission to feel whatever she wants.
It’s the sound of fresh rain and old love.
It’s the sound of hope.
I brace myself for the inevitable. Salma warned me that Lindsay might ask too much of me. Might try to extract more than I could give. I always said I could handle whatever she threw at me.
Salma’s wise.
“I’m sorry,” I say, my mouth numb.
“Don’t ever say that again. Now that I know the truth.”
Now that I know the truth.
“Don’t you see?” She’s smiling. Smiling. Why the fuck is she laughing and smiling? Anger and seething I expect.