Desire (Determination Trilogy 3)

by Lesli Richardson

  Charles and Tory’s baby.

  What would have happened to Kev had I left his hospital room and given Edwin Markos time alone with him like he demanded?

  Would he have killed Kev right there?

  My knees nearly give out as the adrenaline crash hits me.

  Leo pulls me into his arms and asks the agent to call the elevator and help him get me back upstairs. He also gives orders to clear and keep all staff off the second and third floors until he gives the okay.

  I’m…

  Twenty-six years in the fucking Secret Service did not prepare me for this.

  Kevin’s fucking father. He’s behind all of it.

  Goddammit.

  I sob against Leo’s shoulder as he and two other agents herd me back upstairs into the residence.

  * * * *

  Leo is waiting downstairs when Yasmine and and the kids arrive. He whisks them upstairs, where I drop to my knees and pull the kids in for a long hug.

  And I…shatter.

  I hate myself for it, but I utterly break down crying—in grief, in relief—that they’re here, safe, and with me.

  Because how close I came to not even having them twists my guts and fills me with fresh rage.

  I want Yasmine to hear this, too, so she’ll have the full story to help them deal with this. With Leo, I take them all into the Yellow Oval Room, where I sit on one of the large formal sofas with the kids and wrap my arms around them.

  There are things I wish I could rip from my memory, shred, and rid myself of forever. One of them is telling those kids—my kids—that we now know the bad man who nearly killed Uncle Kev is the same one who killed their parents, and who also killed Aunt Lauren.

  Halfway through it, Leo’s phone buzzes. After looking at it he says, “They’re here. I’ll be right back.” He bolts from the room.

  We are all crying by the time I stumble my way through the story. Just as I finish that, I hear a commotion. Kev and Shae, with Leo bringing up the rear, rush into the room.

  “What happened?” Shae asks. “No one’s telling us anything!” She sweeps over to the kids, barely constrained terror on her expression as she enfolds them in a hug, kisses each of them on the head, and reassures herself they’re okay.

  She’s a damn good mom for someone who never wanted kids. They’re our kids now, all three of us, because Kev’s as good as a dad to them, too.

  But as I look at Kev, I can’t do this to him here. “Shae, stay with the kids. Leo will fill you in.” I rise and walk over to him, take his hand, and lead him to the bedroom, where I lock the door behind us.

  He wears his professional mask now. “Chris, what the hell is going on? Why did Secret Service confiscate our phones?”

  God bless Leo.

  I take his hands and lead him to the loveseat, where we sit. There, I kiss his hands and then tuck them against my chest.

  This memory is another I wish I could scourge from my brain. Shock first, his mask crumpling, dissolving, as I lay out everything to him, starting with the fact that Gayle is dead, and then tying it all together, finishing with the coup de grâce of who is behind it all.

  My boy’s grief and rage, his anguished cries as I hold him, will haunt me forever.

  I cry with him, and he ends up with his head in my lap, sobbing. I’ll need to change slacks, because there’s now a puddle of snot there, and I don’t even fucking care.

  Stroking his hair, all I can do is hold him, love him, and pray that today doesn’t break him in ways I can’t put back together. I’m sure there will be a lot of bullshit flying over the next several days, and no doubt some asshole will try to paint Kevin with his father’s tarnished brush, even though Kev was also a victim in this.

  Twice, if you count his broken heart because of Lauren.

  Calls for him to step down will no doubt be launched by some opportunistic assholes.

  That’s standard.

  But I won’t let him.

  I don’t know how long we sit there, but I won’t move until he’s ready. Eventually, he’s cried himself hoarse. Shattered and broken, he stares into the distance with a haunted look on his face. “Why?” he whispers.

  “We don’t know yet. I don’t know yet.”

  “He tried to have me killed? He…he had Lauren killed? Why?”

  “Buddy, as soon as we know anything, you’ll know it. I promise.”

  He rolls over and looks up at me. “I’ll hand in my re—”

  “‘Christmas list’ better be the next two words out of your mouth, boy.”

  He stares at me, finally focusing. “Chris—”

  “No.” I cup his face in my hands and kiss him. I kiss him to remind him of the literal decades of love between us, even if we weren’t together for most of it.

  I kiss him to remind him of the perfection that is the three of us.

  I kiss him to remind him that I need him, and the only way I can do this is with him.

  I kiss him to remind him that Shae loves and needs him in ways I can’t even begin to hope to fulfill for her now.

  I kiss him to remind him that he’s mine.

  I end the kiss by pressing my forehead to his. “No,” I whisper. “You’re not going anywhere. You will not resign. You’re mine. You belong here, with me. Shae can’t do this without you, and neither can I.”

  He finally nods. “Yes, Sir.”

  We clean up and I change clothes. Shae sweeps into the bedroom, fury in her expression as she grabs Kev and hugs him tightly. He leaves to go talk to the kids while Shae watches him go.

  “Can I order nukes now?” she darkly mutters as she passes me on her way to the closet to change clothes.

  “Don’t tempt me, honey,” I say after her.

  There’s a knock. “Come.”

  Leo slips in and closes the door behind him. “He’s in custody. Arraignment in the morning. They’re executing search warrants on his home and office now, as well as several more warrants against a couple of banks.”

  “Send Angie up here, please,” I ask.

  “I’m going to talk to the press,” Shae calls from the closet.

  “Like hell you are,” I call back. “Overruled, girl. I’m pulling rank. Angie’s handling it.”

  She pokes her head through the doorway to glare at me. “I need to make a statement.”

  “No, you’re going to let your press secretary handle this.” Thank god Kev is living here now. I don’t have to worry about him getting swarmed by press. But I’m going to pull the kids out of school for a few days. The last thing I want is them getting hassled about this. Yasmine can get their assignments and work with them here in the residence. I hate to do it, but I have to protect them.

  “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t make the statement?”

  “You’re an attorney. How about tainting a jury?”

  She scrunches up her face and glares at me before letting out an aggravated scream. “Goddammit!” She turns to Leo. “Send Angie up here. Please.” Once he’s gone, she heads back into the closet. “I hate when you’re right!”

  I follow and grab her by the hair, pulling her in for a kiss, holding her there until she goes pliant and responds.

  “But you’re going to be my good girl, aren’t you?” I ask.

  “Yes.” She glares.

  I smack her ass, hard, making her yelp. “Yes?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  She sticks her tongue out at me, but I let that go, because none of us are at our best.

  Late that night, as all three of us are curled up in bed with Kev safely snuggled between us, I’m the last one awake. It’s been, no shit, a media firestorm.

  The only consolation I take from this day is that I finally have answers about Charles and Tory. I have an answer about Lauren.

  I know the kids, Shae, and now Kev are all safe.

  And it reaffirms Priest was right—it wasn’t a coincidence, and it was centered around our family.

  Because Kev is our husband, and I can’t w
ait for the day I can finally publicly scream it to the whole goddamned world.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Kevin

  Chris and Shae tell me I have different “masks” I wear, depending on the circumstances and the audience. That there’s “Sir” Kev, work Kev, kids Kev, public Kev, press-conference Kev, campaign Kev, and then the boy Kev only the two of them get to see when we’re safely locked behind a door and I know I can let all my defenses down.

  Tuesday morning, it’s been less than twenty-four hours since my father was arrested, and almost a full day since Gayle’s suicide.

  The autopsy showed Gayle likely would have died in a matter of weeks. He wouldn’t have made it to trial. Why he waived his right to a speedy trial is now clear.

  He never intended to make it that far, one way or another.

  One of the things we’ll never know, unless my father cracks and admits it, is if Gayle killing himself was always the backup plan, or if it was one fueled by desperation once Dad was tipped off about the truck being located.

  My personal bet? That Gayle told him the truck was taken care of, and my father never followed up on it. That maybe Gayle was keeping it back as an insurance policy in case my father ever tried to screw him over. Or, maybe he was waiting for things to die down to take it to a scrap yard. Who knows?

  I genuinely feel badly for Gayle’s family, now that I know what I know. Something else obvious from everything investigators have discovered is that he was doing this to make sure his family was taken care of. That his grandson, who has health issues, would be able to get medical care. His wife had no idea. She’s even passed a polygraph, as have her children. I’m convinced she’s innocent.

  None of that makes Lauren’s death easier to swallow, but it gives me the ability to release my hatred for the man’s family. Like the rest of us, they are casualties, not additional symptoms of a larger underlying problem.

  Something else they found in the truck’s cab that didn’t make sense at first was a bottle of peanut oil. When looked at in context of the dates of the the payments around Stephen McDannig’s death…

  It doesn’t help that earlier on the day of of McDannig’s death, Gayle’s cell phone was pinged in the vicinity of McDannig’s house. Within one hundred yards.

  When he had no reason to be there.

  But while in that vicinity, Gayle called the same burner phone that called Schoult yesterday.

  Investigators are busy trying to triangulate Gayle’s phone and the burner phone and cross-reference them to other dates. They’re still going through my father’s financials, but they suspect they will come up with more information from farther in the past about other deaths.

  Last night, when I talked to Leo about secretly arranging this outing, I asked him if there was any way for my father to have an “accident” and die in custody, and he chuckled and patted my shoulder.

  I wasn’t kidding, either.

  “It’s better he goes through the humiliation of multiple trials,” he said. “That cements his downfall.”

  Yes, I cried yesterday, but no more tears. Not for that fucker.

  I don’t want trials.

  I want justice.

  I now stand alone in a small witness holding room in the federal courthouse, where I watch a CCTV feed as US Marshals bring Edwin Markos into the courtroom just on the other side of the wall from where I stand. No more thousand-dollar suits. He wears an orange jumpsuit, wrist and ankle manacles, and a bulletproof vest, and his grey and thinning hair is disheveled, and stubble lines his jaw.

  That has to be one of the larger insults to him. My father never leaves the house without every hair in place.

  No one knows I’m here today outside of Leo, the Secret Service detail, and a couple of US Marshals. I awakened well before dawn and slipped out before Shae and Chris woke up so I could come do this. I left them a note that I had to run an errand, that Leo was with me, that I was safe and surrounded by Secret Service, and that I would return by late morning.

  I’ll take my spankings for it without complaint, because I’m sure Sir will want to spank me for leaving without permission, given the circumstances.

  I was brought in much earlier this morning through a secure garage entrance usually used for prisoners. The black, heavily tinted van was obviously mistaken for prisoner transport. The agents transported me from the White House to a secure location just before dawn and then made the vehicle swap.

  We didn’t want the press to know, obviously.

  The mask I wear today barely conceals my homicidal rage, even though I have been extremely careful not to react to anything when outside the confines of the residence.

  I will not give the media the satisfaction. This situation is horrific enough without adding grief porn to the repeat video loops that will play on FNB and elsewhere.

  Lauren was a kind, beautiful soul, a shining light in a landscape that often proved quite dark. She deserved more time on this planet.

  I miss my best friend.

  That Edwin Markos still breathes isn’t justice. Not when my sweet Lauren is gone. Not when my kids lost their parents, and will suffer for the rest of their lives from that loss.

  Not when I remember the gut-wrenching sobs wracking Christopher as Shae and I held him and tried to comfort him after Charles and Tory died.

  Not when I remember the tears in Shae’s eyes as she leaned over my hospital bed and whispered how much she loved me and needed me.

  Not when I remember the agonizing tears of Lauren’s mother and father at her funeral.

  Not when I Googled Stephen McDannig last night and found pictures of his grief-stricken wife and four young children taken at the cemetery during his funeral.

  My father’s attorney enters a not guilty plea—of fucking course—and I don’t process the rest of it as I stare at him through the video screen and will him to spontaneously combust where he stands.

  Bail is, thankfully, denied.

  After the prosecutor and defense and judge set dates for hearings and filings, my father is led from the courtroom by US Marshals.

  I open the door to the hallway where two of my Secret Service agents wait with a US Marshal. The entire courthouse is on lockdown until this proceeding concludes and he’s out of the courthouse. No press in the courtroom today, just one pool camera feed all the networks will access.

  Without a word, the US Marshal leads us back through a cleared and secure service corridor where we encounter no one. He has us wait, then goes ahead to check something. A moment later, he emerges from another corridor and waves for us to join him. We leave the two Secret Service agents behind outside a heavily reinforced door that unlocks a moment after the US Marshal swipes a keycard and punches in a code.

  He keeps his voice low, barely a whisper. “I have to stay with you, sir,” the US Marshal says as he leads me inside the small holding area. “I can’t let you within arm’s reach of the cell.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “And we have less than five minutes before I need to get you out of here. We shut off the surveillance feed.”

  I nod.

  It’s cold in here, with a metallic, antiseptic hint to the air. Fluorescent lights protected by reinforced fixtures in the ceiling shed harsh light that gives everything a greyish tinge. A purgatory personified, if ever there were one.

  Four small, windowless, one-person cells comprise this holding area, but instead of barred walls along the corridor they have solid fronts and reinforced plexiglass viewing windows with tiny air holes, and heavy metal doors. A slot in the door, over a ledge, is probably for food trays or accessing hands for manacles, or something like that.

  My father sits on a bare metal bunk and looks up as I approach. He’s still wears his manacles and bulletproof vest. As I stare at him, I realize had ten-year-old me known what he was capable of, I doubt I could have become a functioning adult at all.

  Behind the mask, adult me comforts ten-year-old me, tucking that terrified child saf
ely behind Sir, who would, if left alone with this monster, gladly kill him with my bare hands.

  When I arranged this with Leo’s help, I didn’t tell Shae or Chris. I knew they’d talk me out of it, try to insist it was better not to.

  That Chris would order me not to, and, for the first time, I’d have to willfully disobey him. Best not to even tell them.

  They won’t understand.

  I need this.

  I need this for ten-year-old me.

  I need this for Lauren.

  It’s not my fault Lauren is dead, but it is my fault she crossed my father’s sights. She did nothing more than love me, and it eventually killed her.

  I can’t help but wonder now if, based on my father’s behavior around her when I was married to her, he was jealous of me for marrying her.

  Late yesterday, Leo talked to his contacts inside the investigation. They confided in him that the initial questioning of people around my father confirms he’d been ranting about Lauren right before her death, and then smiling and happy the day the news of her murder broke. That was before he gave the tearful speech on the House floor.

  In retrospect, my father likely targeted Lauren because of an incident that occurred at a press conference. Dad gave an interview the evening before, and made some stupid, shitty comments about Shae, the kind meant to play to some mythical “base” and the kind of sound bite that gets a lot of publicity because of how fucking stupid it is.

  The next day, during the regular White House press briefing, a reporter naturally asked Lauren for a comment about my father’s comment.

  Lauren’s snarky and completely legitimate reply, which boiled down to implying the only person who really cared about Edwin Markos’ opinion was Edwin Markos, triggered laughter from the reporters—laughter at my father.

  Laughter he imagined he heard ringing through the halls of Congress, apparently, because at least five different people remember how enraged he’d been after the press conference aired. As Lauren’s retort knocked his own sound bite off the top of the charts, his rage reportedly grew.

  Five days later, Lauren was dead.

  But of course, my father had an alibi. He’d been at a dinner with twenty other people fifty miles away, so no one looked at him as a suspect.