Unwilling to let him see that his words had hit their target, I opened the door, stepped into the bathroom, and locked it behind me, my mind reeling. John Thomas knows something about Henry’s father. Something that he thought could hurt Henry’s campaign. Something he thinks could hurt Henry.
I stayed in the bathroom for a full five minutes before I unlocked the door and eased it back open. John Thomas was nowhere to be seen, but the hallway was occupied. A couple. The woman had red hair, a blue dress. She was wearing matching heels. The man was her same height, seemingly twice as wide. He pulled the woman tight to his body, his hands roaming over her curves. I couldn’t make out either of their faces, but I could see a thick silver ring on the man’s right hand as he shuddered and his fingers entangled themselves in her hair.
The sound of incoming footsteps pried the two apart. I stepped back from the door, letting it close and hoping they wouldn’t take note of it—or me.
A few seconds later, I heard Adam calling my name. When I opened the door back into the hallway, the couple was gone.
“Are you okay?” Adam asked me.
I stepped toward him. “Are you?”
It wasn’t until half an hour later, when we made it to the valet stand, and I saw the thick silver ring on the hand of the man in front of us in line that I realized who he was.
Congressman Wilcox.
And the woman standing between him and John Thomas—the woman who didn’t have red hair and wasn’t wearing a blue dress—was the congressman’s wife.
CHAPTER 22
Walker Nolan showed up on our doorstep Saturday morning, looking hungover and on the verge of collapse.
Ivy rounded on me. “Upstairs,” she ordered. “Now.”
“It’s okay.” Walker’s voice was hoarse. “She’s going to see it anyway. Everyone is.”
There was a beat of silence.
“See what?” Ivy asked.
Walker stared at her for several seconds, nonresponsive.
“Walker,” Ivy said sharply.
He swallowed, his eyes regaining some of their focus. “Can I come in?”
“My name is Daniela Nicolae.”
Walker’s it was a video—one that had arrived in his inbox that morning.
“I live next door. You pass me in the coffee shop. I’m a nice girl, the kind you smile at when you walk by.” The terrorist’s eyes were dark, a stark contrast to her fair skin. “I am a doctor. I am your neighbor. I am your friend. And everything you know about me is a lie.”
Daniela spoke with a faint accent, one I couldn’t quite pinpoint.
“I have been raised for one purpose and one purpose alone. Mine is a glorious calling. And by the time you know me for who and what I am, it will be too late.”
She taped this before the bombing, I realized. Before she knew it would fail.
“I am one of many. You work with us, side by side. You lift a hand to wave as we are out watering our lawns. We are everywhere. We are in your government, your law enforcement, your military. We see everything. We know all of your secrets.” Even with a screen between us, her gaze was eerie in its intensity. “And we wait.”
The camera panned out and the terrorist’s hand rested on her stomach—her very pregnant stomach. Her expression flickered, and for a moment, I saw a quieter, raw emotion underneath. “I wish that it could be different. I wish that my child could know her father. I wish that there was no part of me that loved him. I wish that he did not love me. I wish . . .” She swallowed. “I wish that I were not so good at my job. I do, Walker. But I am what I am, and you are the president’s son.”
Her hand fell away from her stomach. “My name is Daniela Nicolae. And the time for waiting is over.”
The clip ended abruptly, the screen going to black.
“She made it,” Walker said. “For me. For after.”
“Walker.” Ivy’s voice was calm but every bit as intense as the terrorist’s had been. “What did you mean when you said everyone was going to see this?”
Walker looked like he hadn’t slept in days. He looked like he might never sleep again. “I’m not the only one that video was sent to.”
There were some secrets that not even the great Ivy Kendrick could bury. Pandora’s box had been opened. There was no closing it now. By noon, the video had gone viral. By twelve ten, it was playing on every major news channel.
“The president’s son invited a terrorist not just into his home but into his bed! We have to ask: What exactly did Walker Nolan tell this woman? Why was he such an easy target? And how long has the president known the truth?”
The female pundit who’d flamed the Nolan administration after the bombing wasn’t debating anyone this time. She was sitting behind a desk, speaking directly into the camera.
“We know that these groups specialize in turning people. They recruit American citizens. Has the president’s son been interrogated? Are we sure they didn’t get to him, too?”
On and on it went. Walker was either an accomplice or a patsy. He’d chosen to turn down Secret Service protection. He’d made himself a target. And if the president couldn’t safeguard his own family, how could we expect him to safeguard this country?