by Meli Raine
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.”
Lindsay’s smile fades.
“Corning and Harry clashed – hard – over the years within the party, but Harry had no reason to believe Corning was capable of what he eventually ordered.” Marshall appears to fumble for words.
“You mean no one would have guessed he was evil enough to hire three of my friends to rape and torture Lindsay for political gain,” I clarify.
Monica’s eyes dart to me. Harry sighs.
Silas and Mark remain stone faced.
“You could put it that way,” Marshall says in a terse voice.
“I just did.”
Lindsay squeezes my hand. “But how did he do it? How did he get those three guys in particular? They went to school with Drew, he knew them much of his life,” Lindsay asks.
The ten-million-dollar question.
Why Lindsay? Why the gang rape on streaming video? Why such an outrageous act?
“Corning is sealed tight. However, some extraneous information -- ”
A euphemism for hacking.
“ -- reveals that the initial contact was with Blaine Maisri. We’ve found significant sums of money that were channeled through subsidiary accounts connected to Corning supporters and funneled into businesses owned by the Maisri family, but the forensic research on this will take a very long time to unravel.”
“Could you translate that into English?” Lindsay asks.
“Corning paid Maisri off,” Marshall says sourly, not looking at her.
“So those assholes got paid to rape me,” she replies.
Marshall, Harry and Monica flinch.
“Among other things,” I add. “The meteoric rise of Blaine, Stellan and John in their respective careers must have been part of the deal, too.”
Mark finally opens his mouth and says something, brow down with concentration. “How do you use connections to grab a major-league pitching slot? Doesn’t make sense.”
“I can answer that,” Marshall says, shaking his head with a look of admiration and disbelief. “John Gainsborough had natural aptitude, but he also had a good knuckleball. Other teams were already becoming suspicious. Looks like someone was tampering with the balls and Corning helped to get umpires to make calls in Gainsborough’s favor.”
“All we need to do is analyze the balls’ trajectories across enough game footage,” Silas interrupts. “You can pattern match pretty quickly and see how he did it.”
Marshall gives him a hard stare.
“I played in college,” Silas says with a shrug.
“The corruption goes that far?” Mark asks, a sick look on his face. “Tampering with major league baseball? All for a leg up in politics?”
Harry snorts. “Corning isn’t exactly known for his morality. But I never thought...”
“If the goal was to humiliate Daddy by using me, then...” Lindsay falters. “I don’t know.” She shakes her head.
“Say it,” Monica whispers. “Go ahead. Today is the day to just get all this shit out so we can move on.”
“Did they have to be so vicious about it? So sadistic?” Lindsay takes in a long, shaky breath. “And video it?”
“That was all part of the plan, according to some of the communication we’ve intercepted,” Marshall explains. “It needed to be such a scandal that it would dominate headlines. The specific goal was to paint you as an out-of-control slut -- ”
“But -- ”
<
br /> “There’s more,” Marshall says, holding up his hand, pausing Lindsay. “And to distract the mainstream media while Corning shoved through a massive appropriations bill that contained ethically-questionable riders.”
Harry reels back. “He what?”
Monica’s eyes turn to angry slits. “He used Lindsay’s scandal to distract the country, and Harry, so he could push legislation through Congress?”
“Yes,” Marshall confirms. “It was a massive distraction.”
Harry lets out a colorful ribbon of expletives.
“What happened four years ago wasn’t enough, though,” says Marshall, his voice hard. “Harry persevered. Won re-election and dodged the scandal. So when it was time to declare for he was running for president and bring Lindsay home, Nolan Corning brought everyone back for Round Two.”
“And set me up for Lindsay’s murder,” I grind out.
“How did you get into the apartment next door?” Marshall asks, terse. His beady eyes hold a mixture of judgement and admiration.
“I manipulated the woman who lives next door,” I start to explain.
“Tiffany,” Lindsay says in a catty voice. She leans toward my ear and whispers, “You weren’t sleeping with her, right? Jon and Stellan tried to convince me you were.”
“You think I’d cheat on you?” I hiss, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Lindsay turns beet red. “No. It’s just they said -- ”
I give her a look that says nothing those dead bastards ever said is true.
She squeezes my hand and sighs. “Sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for.” I kiss her cheek and return my attention to Marshall. “So Corning ‘reactivated’ Blaine, John and Stellan.”
“He had enough dirt on them,” Marshall says flatly.
Monica gives a bitter laugh. “Your father’s approval ratings have soared since the story came out about Nolan Corning!” Monica gushes, her voice a strange brew of over-the-top enthusiasm and stark fury. “This has been absolutely fabulous for his campaign.”
“Glad to be of help,” Lindsay mutters.
I explode.
Lindsay
I am not used to having my own cheering section 24/7. He’s holding my hand and screaming at my mother. No one ever mentioned that when you fall in love, this constant defender comes with the territory.
I like it.
“No matter how many times I tell myself you have more depth, you find a way to disprove it, Monica! Jesus Fucking Christ, no one cares about Harry’s approval ratings!” Drew shouts.
Daddy and Marshall interrupt him, saying, “Actually, we do,” both at the same time.
“Not at Lindsay’s expense!” Drew snaps.
Mom looks like he called her a bad name.
“I would never put Harry’s campaign above Lindsay’s best interests!” she retorts in a haughty voice, clutching the gold necklace she’s wearing.
I start laughing. I can’t stop. One look at Silas tells me he’s trying not to laugh. Drew is red-faced and puffed up, livid on my behalf, and can’t calm down enough to giggle at the absurdity that just came out of my mother’s mouth.
“When have you ever – even once! -- put Lindsay ahead of your political ambitions?” Drew yells at her, getting in Mom’s face. She actually leans way back, afraid.
And then her cunning nature kicks in.
“My political ambitions?” She wags a finger at him. It’s perfectly manicured, the French tip flawlessly drawn. “My political ambitions? Oh, no. You do not get to lecture me about political ambition – this is all for Harry.”
Daddy snorts.
Mom turns on him, murderous.
“Don’t even go there.”
His face goes slack.
“Could we get back to the topic at hand...” Marshall implores, clearing his throat again. “We have a great deal of ground to cover.”
“And Lindsay has her psych eval for the Island in ninety minutes,” Mom adds in a matter-of-fact tone.
I clasp Drew’s elbow, mostly to get his attention, but partly to make sure he doesn’t haul off and punch my mother.
“The Island?” I challenge. “I’m not being evaluated to go to the Island. I’m just being checked out to make sure I’m okay.”
Marshall and Mom share a look.
I know that look.
No. Fucking. Way.
“I am not going to the Island,” I announce, mustering as much authority as I can. “They did an eval before they let me go yesterday. This is just a follow-up. I have to get my wounds re-bandaged, too. It’s all a formality.”
Daddy shoves a stack of newspapers across the conference table. The top one, a color tabloid, has full-body shots of me in Tiffany’s living room, naked and shoving a knife in Stellan’s crotch. My breasts and mons are blurred out.
“These are everywhere, sweetie,” Daddy explains, not looking at me. “This isn’t going away. We’re just replacing one scandal with another. And you...well, you killed someone. The psych evaluations are necessary. And Stacia says -- ”
“The police cleared me of all charges. I’m free to do whatever I need as long as I give them my contact information for interviews and investigations. No one is questioning that what I did to Stellan was self-defense,” I say, anger burning through my body.
“And well deserved,” Drew chimes in.
“But Stacia thinks that the trauma -- ”
“I don’t care what Stacia says,” I respond, smooth as silk as I cut off Mom’s words. “I am almost twenty-three years old and I am a legal adult. You can’t make me go back to the Island against my will.”
“We’re your next of kin, Lindsay. And if the psychiatrist says you’re not quite stable, a few weeks at the Island – just until the story and the video loops die down – might be good for you,” Mom says with urgency. “I would love two or three weeks on an island recuperating,” she adds, with a titter that makes me want to punch her in the throat.
Now Drew is holding my elbow nice and tight.
“I’ll fight you,” I say through gritted teeth. “You want that all over the newspapers? ‘Presidential candidate’s daughter unfairly institutionalized by overbearing parents – news at eleven!’”
Marshall cuts me a cold look. “Won’t work. Our spin machine can paint you to look like a hysterical loon in under six hours, Lindsay.”
“HEY!” Drew snaps, moving so Marshall has no line of sight on me. “That’s enough!”
“Indeed,” Daddy says in a slow, tired voice.
“Lindsay isn’t going anywhere she doesn’t want to go,” Drew adds.
“The doctor will be the judge of that,” Mom says primly.
“You can’t do this,” I whisper. The fight is draining out of me. I’m tired. So tired. “Why are you doing this to me?” I ask Mom, the words eerily familiar. I’m triggered, remembering John and Stellan, tasting the hot garlic in their mouths, fighting to breathe.
I’m naked Lindsay on that tabloid cover, wearing another man’s blood and holding all the sins in the world in my hand.
Drew senses it, standing, slowly guiding me up. “We’re done,” he announces. Silas stands, loyal to Drew. Mark Paulson stays seated. His eyes are on Daddy.
Mom pretends nothing negative has been said, as if their plan to send me to the Island is a gift. “Tired? Oh, sweetie, go rest. Maybe your discharge came a bit too early.” She gives me a long look.
She’s not talking about yesterday’s discharge from the hospital.
She’s talking about my discharge from the Island, weeks ago.
As Drew guides me out the door, he and Mark share a look.
“We’ll talk later,” Drew says to him. Mark just nods and gives me a sympathetic smile.
“Thank you,” I say to him, the words inadequate.
“Any time,” he says. I know he means it. Mark stays in the room as Marshall resumes his debriefing.
I heard what I needed to hear.
Chapter 17
> Drew
Rule number one when dealing with a determined, empowered enemy: run.
It’s the same first response we recommend to civilians in active shooter settings, too.
“So Mom and Daddy still want to ship me off to the Island until the media storm is over, Jane and Anya turned on me but for good reasons, Jane actually didn’t turn on me because she’s my darknet informant and used hacking skills to get the secret videotape that proves my innocence...and I forgot to grab one of those apple fritters back there on the table!” Lindsay’s stomach growls like an exclamation point at the end of her rant. “Another way to get back at Mom – eat carbs in front of her!”
I chuckle in spite of my fury. “Let’s fix one of those. Getting you a pastry is the easy part,” I say, carefully wrapping my arm around her shoulders as we walk slowly to the parking garage.
“You are bright red, hot as hell, and your heart is zooming,” she tells me as we walk, holding tight.
“Hot as hell? Love the compliment, baby.”
“I mean from screaming at my mom,” she says with a soft laugh. “But yeah. You’re hot no matter what.”
Flirting. Lindsay is flirting.
She’s not even close to being one hundred percent, but then again, neither am I. We have to heal – inside and out -- and time is our best form of medicine.
Time together, that is.
As we get to the elevators for the parking garage, I press the lobby button. Her face screws up in confusion.
“I thought we were leaving.”
“Let’s walk down the street to a bakery.”
She smiles shyly and says nothing, stepping onto the elevator as the doors open. We’re alone on the ride down. I hold her close, mind churning, careful not to hurt her shoulder.
My coat contains something special, right in the same inner breast pocket where the crown of her head touches.
But she doesn’t know.
We’re both deep in our own thoughts, the elevator bell ding! startling us, making Lindsay smile and shake her head. The sun is blinding, like always. It’s good to know the world goes on, even as our own individual worlds seemed to fall apart for a little while.
