TWENTY-EIGHT
ELLE
That photo still haunts me two days later, when I come in from work and find my roommate with her legs tucked under her on the couch. She’s tuned into CNN, pausing and rewinding Don Lemon interviewing some suit.
“I’ve got it narrowed down,” she calls out. She doesn’t turn around to look at me. It’s either this guy.” She wiggles the remote to the man on screen. I squint and read his name. Calder Michaels, a New Hampshire Democrat in the House. “Franklin Padick, Boyd Woodfield, or Graham Delaney.”
I’m thankful she’s not looking at me. Otherwise, my body language would have given everything away the second she said his name. I haven’t spoken to him since he took me to the airport two days ago. It’s not like it’s the first time he’s gone days without contacting me, but there was something about his detached smile that had left me dazed.
“But I really hope it’s not this one,” Blake continues. When I come around to the side of the couch and drop my keys on the end table, she scrunches her nose. “He sniffles so much on camera that I swear he’s about to snort a line off the back of his hand before the interview is done.”
“Maybe he has a cold,” I laugh. She rolls her eyes. “And you’ve never touched that shit in your life, so how do you know?”
“I grew up in Boston, Elle. The seventy-year-old cat lady next door probably did coke.” She hits the play button on the remote and cocks her head as she finishes listening to Calder’s interview. I’ve got to admit, he does sniff a little too frequently. Once he’s done talking to the reporter—to probably go do a line, Blake says—she swings her legs off the couch and pads into the kitchen. “So, am I right about any of them? Because this guessing game’s starting to give me anxiety issues.”
She’s been at this since I came back from New York, trying to figure out who I was with and everything I did while I was there, and I can tell it’s driving her crazy. Blake and I don’t keep much from each other. When I turn toward her, and she gives me a hopeful look, I sag my shoulders, relenting.
“It’s not Michaels,” I admit, then throw in a sniff.
She raises her hands in the air and closes her eyes. “Thank God. I was starting to get worried you’d gone full bad girl.” As she pours herself a glass of water, she wiggles her pale eyebrows. “And then, there were three.”
“You should be a detective,” I say dryly as she drops a piece of lemon into her glass.
“I’m like Veronica Mars but even shorter.”
I roll my eyes. That show—and the movie—is the last thing I want to bring up since we can’t discuss it without arguing. She’s Team Piz and I’m Team Logan. Because I have a thing for the jackasses. “I’m going to shower.”
“If you’re having phone sex with Woodfield, Delaney or Padick in there, make sure you do it loudly and scream his name so I can find out who he is.”
Yeah, I don’t see that happening when the man hasn’t even thought to pick up his phone and call me in two days, but I grant Blake a thin-lipped smile as I walk toward my bedroom to get undressed. I’m in the process of grabbing a change of clothes when my phone vibrates on my dresser. I grin when Zach’s smiling picture flashes on my screen.
“My favorite person!” I answer breathlessly, and he snorts.
“You’re so full of it, Elle.” He says something to someone with him in the room—“calm down, I’m telling her now”—and I arch my brows.
“Is everything all right?”
“It’s … good. Really good, Elle. Have you been on Facebook or Instagram lately?”
No, but I’m already opening the laptop on my bed and hastily bringing up my Facebook profile to look at the picture Zach tagged me in a few hours ago. “I hate when you send me on a scavenger hunt to find—” My breath catches in my throat when I reach the image of my brother and Jameson. Holding a toddler, big pink bow and all. “Oh my god, you’re adopting?” I squeal.
He chuckles. “No, we’re fostering Natalie. But there’s … there’s a good chance she might end up here for good. We’re not getting our hopes up yet.”
I ease down on my bed, a soft smile playing on my lips. Zach’s always liked kids. Even when he was younger and Dad tried to guilt trip him into volunteer work, he’d loved working with kids around the area. “I’m so happy for you guys,” I whisper, my chest swelling. I swallow back the emotion and wipe my face. “She’s beautiful and now you have my broke ass wanting to hop on the first flight to Newport.”
He makes a noise that lets me know he wants to finish the conversation we started at Monroe’s when he found out what Dad did, but when I ask him not to ruin the moment, he sighs. “Say the word and I’ll buy you a ticket right now.”
“Work,” I say, “but, God, I wish I could.”
“Don’t worry, as soon as DSS gives us the okay, we’ll come to you. I can already picture Mom’s face.”
“Hmm. Passive and looking at Dad for the okay to comment?” I sigh and take one last look at the three beaming faces in the photo and tap the escape key, exiting to other photos he’s recently tagged me in. “I swear I really will never talk to him again if he acts like a shit about Natalie. I mean, I haven’t talked to him since—”
I pause when my gaze locks on to the smile that’s bothered me since my last night in New York, and the air floats right out of my lungs. My fingers shake as I click on it and lean so close the glow from the screen makes my eyes water.
“Talked to him since when?” my brother probes.
“Christmas,” I say numbly, studying all the faces on the screen. I remember this. Can vividly recall the night ten years ago when it was taken. After all, I’m right in the center of my family and Dad’s staff. Dressed like Holiday Barbie and making a face because Mom had told me to smile big for the camera because the Courtney’s New Year’s Eve bash always—always—made the front page. “The picture that you shared the other day at that New Year’s party … do you remember it?”
“Other than hating the night it was taken?” he teases. “Of course, I remember it. It came up in my timeline and I couldn’t resist sharing it because of that look on your face and that shit buzz cut Dad talked me into. Why? What’s up?”
“The brunette,” I breathe. I press my hand to my chest, digging my fingertips into the plush fabric of my bathrobe. “The one standing four people to your left. Do you know who that is?”
He tells me to hold on, and I feel like my heart is about to beat right out of my ribcage as I wait. I hear his fingers tapping swiftly on his phone as he pulls up the picture, then he returns. “One of Dad’s old interns, I think. I never really talked to them because Dad always thought I was trying to cop a feel.” He snorts. “Shows how observant he is.”
My response sounds forced, numb. “That’s because he’s an idiot.”
Zach agrees, easing the conversation into his plans to visit the area soon, but I can barely hear him. Blood seems to pump through my ears, numbing every other sense but sight. And the only thing I can see is the brunette’s smile. I was right about recognizing her. If Graham had just brushed her off without such a violent reaction, I would have never noticed this. Would have pushed her out of my mind the second we left Bennett’s apartment.
Now, I’m curious because I’m one hundred percent sure she’s the reason he’s so … him. And now, I know the one person who can shed some light on the other woman. Even if he’s the last person I want to see.
My father meets me at Monroe’s late the next afternoon after I leave work. His expression is smug when he sits down across from me, straightening his slim tie. I can’t remember the last time we had lunch without an assistant in tow, but I’m grateful it’s just us today. That way, he won’t brush off anything I say for the sake of propriety.
He orders a glass of water and twists his lips in disdain when I ask for a blackberry bramble. “It’s too early for cocktails, Eleanor,” he admonishes, giving our waitress a smile. “She’ll have water as well.”
“I’d prefer the cocktail,” I say.
The waitress’s eyes shift between us like she’s waiting for him to give her the thumbs up on my decision. When he simply looks at me, stonily, she creeps away, promising she’ll return shortly to take our order.
“You enjoy doing this,” he says, unfolding his linen napkin. “Making a spectacle of yourself?”
“Oh, yes.” I jerk my napkin into my lap, my hands trembling with fury as I smooth it over my high-waisted, blush pink pants. “I’m making such a spectacle of myself by having a mind of my own and ordering a drink. Maybe after I’m done here, I’ll go and drink a forty out of a brown paper bag at the bus stop near your office.”
At least then, maybe I’ll run into Graham. And hopefully, I’ll be able to face him with new knowledge.
“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stop talking.” Our eyes go to war for a long pause—a clash of blue versus blue—but then Dad smirks. “I’m assuming you called because you need money. Classes resume in—what?—two weeks?”
“I’ve already told you that it’s covered. That hasn’t changed,” I say through my teeth. I murmur my appreciation when the waitress returns with my drink. I know it’s petty, but I take my time savoring the first sip, smiling at Dad over the rim of the glass. I wait until she leaves again to speak. “Plus, I have a job.”
His dark eyebrow jerks so high it almost touches his hairline. “Doing what, exactly?”
“An assistant at a very reputable newspaper.” I won’t tell him that the Buzz just published a piece today about one of his colleagues Ecstasy-fueled Christmas bender with last year’s MILF Performer of the Year. I place my phone on the table, but before I pull up the picture, I pause. “Are you ever going to make things right with Zach, Dad?”
“If he goes into therapy.”
“Therapy,” I repeat, my voice dull. He shrugs a shoulder, and I hollow in my cheeks. There’s part of me that wants to ask him why. To figure out the thoughts going through his head. But I know, deep down, that it’s a waste of my time. He has his image to protect. “I actually called you because I had a question about a picture Zach posted on Facebook.”
He parts his lips, no doubt to fire off a nasty retort, but then his eyelids lower and he grinds out, “I’m not aware of anything your brother posts to Facebook..”
Yes, well that’s because he blocked you for being a dick. Congratulations.
I dip my head and unlock my phone. My hands shake as I extend it toward him. “Do you remember this woman? Zach said she was one of your interns.” His jaw slackens for a second, but he makes a hasty recovery, sliding the phone back in my direction.
“She was. Why do you want to know? On the hunt for someone to bring you coffee and send faxes?”
God, he’s such a dick. “I just wanted to know her name.”
He puffs out a breath. “And you expect me to remember every face, every name, that steps foot in my office?”
“That’s your claim to fame, isn’t it?” Robert Courtney, a senator for the people. “Just a name, Dad … I could have sworn I ran into her when I was…”
His eyebrows round. “When you were where?”
“In New York, with Blake.”
“Hmm.” He opens his menu, skimming over it like he’s not going to order the same thing he always gets. Sure enough, when our server returns, I’m not the least bit surprised when he requests the côte de boeuf—because the beef comes from cows raised in Virginia, and Dad wants to show his support for his constituents. For the next hour, he uses his leverage over me to his advantage. We talk about the weather. Mom’s upcoming birthday party—he expects me to be there, behaving, with a smile on my face. He even mentions Alex, though I’m relieved my ex hadn’t contacted him after speaking with Graham.
Polishing off the last bite of his risotto, Dad rests back in his chair. He gives me a look that takes me back to my childhood, when I was willing to do anything it took to earn my parents approval, and I wilt. I brace my hands on the table in front of me on either side of my untouched salad and stare him down.
“So, do you remember her name?”
“I remember everyone who’s ever worked for me,” he drawls, but something flashes in his blue eyes. When I blink, it’s gone, leaving me to wonder if I just imagined it. “Charlotte. Stryker, I believe, or Strickland—something like that.”
“Thank you.” I grab my phone to text her name to myself, my heart lurching when I see there’s a missed call from Senator Sexy-Ass. This time, I should make him wait with no contact whatsoever.
“And Eleanor?” I look up from my screen to meet Dad’s intense stare. “You couldn’t have possibly seen that woman in New York.”
“And why is that?”
He accepts our check from our server and tosses a black credit card on it without checking the amount. “She’s dead.”