by Cindy Dees
* * *
Willa stared out from the wings of the makeshift stage at the brightly lit podium that the governor would walk out to momentarily, and introduce her as the new junior senator from the great state of Texas.
“You okay?” Gabe murmured beside her.
She nodded, even though it was a lie, and smoothed her new charcoal-gray suit down her front. Gabe had fed her breakfast, helped her write her blessedly short speech and then driven her over to Neiman Marcus an hour before the upscale department store opened.
A personal shopper, makeup artist and hairdresser had been waiting inside for her. She’d stood like a patient doll while Nieman’s efficient staff took care of her, dressing, primping and painting her to perfection for this press conference. And not one bit of it felt real. It was all an elaborate dream. Were it not for Gabe’s warm, firm grip on her elbow, she would still be absolutely convinced that none of this was real.
“Remember, Will. You’re about to become a United States senator. You have nothing to be ashamed of and everything to be proud of. Of all the people he could’ve chosen, your father thought highly enough of you to entrust this job to you. And you’re going to do great at it.”
She smiled ruefully at him, but the expression felt fake and plastic on her face. She was a fraud. And the whole world was about to see it for themselves. “Can I go throw up in the corner now?” she muttered.
Gabe laughed. “Don’t bother picturing them all in their underwear. Picture them naked.”
“If I can stand up in front of a bunch of five-year- olds and teach, I can talk to these folks,” she whispered back. “That’s not what I’m scared of.”
“What, then?” Gabe asked in concern that was so sweet, she almost forgot she wasn’t supposed to trust him.
“They’re going to eat me alive about the James Ward thing.”
“Screw them,” he declared. “Refuse to talk about it and move on with the press conference.”
She opened her mouth to retort that the reporters wouldn’t give up that easily, but the television camera lights popped on just then with a slight buzzing and a rush of hot, blinding light. Governor Graham walked out from the opposite side of the stage and gripped both sides of the podium as he read from a teleprompter. Too late for her to run away and hide.
“...would like to introduce my choice for the position, Willa Merris, daughter of the late Senator John Merris...”
Her feet stuck to the floor, and were it not for Gabe giving her a smile and a little shove, there was no way on God’s green earth she’d have walked out in front of that phalanx of cameras and reporters.
The next few minutes passed in a daze. She held up her right hand, repeated the meaningless sounds that were actually the Congressional Oath of Office and read the strings of words on the piece of paper in front of her on the podium that were her statement of thanks to the governor and her promise to the voters of Texas to do her best to represent them.
And then the governor’s press secretary uttered the phrase she’d been dreading worse than facing a firing squad. “Senator Merris will take a few questions, ladies and gentlemen.”
The shout that went up was worthy of spectators at a Roman gladiatorial bout. The cacophony held the same avid bloodlust. She recoiled from the aggression of the crowd, stunned at the hostility rolling off the room toward her. Had they all secretly hated her father so much or was this nastiness directed at her, specifically?
She gazed across the sea of faces, looking for anyone who didn’t appear openly eager to shred her.
No surprise, her mother hadn’t shown up today. Hurt, disappointment and anger swirled inside her. Minnie wasn’t a bad person, but forty years with John Merris had broken her. Willa got that. Still, she could’ve used a little support today from someone who didn’t hate her outright.
Larry Shore’s face caught her attention. He’d been singularly unhelpful this morning in the scramble to prepare her for this press conference. Truth be told, he’d been of little help to her or her mother since the murder, and no help at all since he got out of jail a few days ago.
At the moment, Larry was leaning against the wall off to one side of the circus, looking so pleased with himself he could bust. Had he given these jackals the scoop on her pressing charges against James Ward? Lord knew Shore was vicious and ambitious enough to pull a stunt like that. He was a chip off her father’s old block.
Impatient of waiting for her to call on one of them, the reporters started shouting questions at her. By rights, Shore ought to be up here beside her, telling the journalists to cool it and treat her with proper respect. But he stayed where he was, arms crossed, enjoying the show.
Without warning, a large, male presence materialized beside her. Speaking in a voice that brooked no shenanigans, Gabe growled, “If you all don’t pipe down, the senator’s not going to be able to answer any of your questions. This is a press conference, not a free-for-all. I’d remind you that Senator Merris has recently lost her father to a shocking and tragic murder, and she doesn’t need the likes of you jumping all over her. Do I make myself clear?”
The press pit subsided immediately. Gabe pointed at a reporter from one of the major networks who asked her a harmless enough question about who she planned to endorse in the upcoming election to replace her father. She assured the guy that she would review the candidates thoroughly, and make an announcement in the next week or so.
Another reporter asked whether she planned to go to Washington at all or if her appointment was purely a political favor to her family. She deflected the implied jab by reminding the reporter that the Senate was not in session and reiterated that she would serve in whatever capacity she was called upon over the next several months to the best of her ability.
That answer made Shore scowl. What was up with him, anyway? He’d been her father’s flunkie for as long as she could remember. Why was he even here today? He’d been absolutely furious when she’d called him last night to inform him of the governor’s appointment. Had he expected the governor to appoint him to her father’s vacant Senate seat?
“...verify that you accused the son of a prominent businessman of rape yesterday?”
Her attention snapped back to the brunette woman who’d asked the question. She recognized Paula Craddock from KVXT news. The room went dead silent as dozens of reporters stared at her expectantly, waiting for her answer and sensing the kill.
Honest to goodness, Willa thought she was going to throw up right then and there. Her stomach heaved as all her worst nightmares came true. Even the governor was throwing her a horrified look from the wings of stage left.
She’d been a senator for two whole minutes, and she’d already disgraced the office, disgraced her family and disgraced herself. Shame, hot and acid, bubbled up in the back of her throat all but gagging her.
“Courage, Will,” Gabe breathed from behind unmoving lips. “No shame. Chin high.”
She took a wobbly breath and answered the reporter, “You’re referring to a personal matter that has no bearing on my new position. The events under investigation took place well before my father’s death, and I have confidence the truth will come out over time. Until then, I have no comment on it.”
“But you’re wrecking a good man’s reputation and have no evidence to support your wild claims, both of which call into serious question your fitness to hold your father’s job,” Paula Craddock followed up.
Gabe leaned forward aggressively, but Willa surprised herself by placing a restraining hand on his arm. He yielded the microphone to her reluctantly.
Willa borrowed a page from her teacher’s playbook, and looked out across the sea of faces like a chiding parent addressing a room full of unruly five-year-olds. She spoke gently, but with unmistakable steel in her voice. “I said no comment. And I mean no comment. I will never comment on this matter, and I will blacklist any reporter who persists in questioning me about it. Understood?”
A disconcerted murmur rose, and sh
e sagged in relief as the governor’s press secretary hustled forward to call an end to the press conference and make a few off-camera wrap-up comments about the governor’s schedule for the rest of the day.
Gabe’s arm went around her waist as her legs all but gave out from under her. “I told you, you should have eaten more breakfast,” he commented. “You’re going to look damned silly if you faint after putting them all in their place like that.”
She smiled up at him weakly. He told a hotel employee to bring the senator a glass of orange juice, and she remembered at the last second not to look over her shoulder for her father.
One of the governor’s aides hustled up to her. “The governor wanted me to let you know your Secret Service detail will arrive tomorrow. Would you like us to provide you with police protection in the meantime?”
“Heavens, no,” she exclaimed. She just wanted her life to remain as close to normal as possible.
The fellow scurried off as a hotel employee arrived with a pitcher of orange juice and poured her a glass of it.
While Gabe watched on, she drank up the refreshing liquid obediently.
“Now what?” he asked.
Now what, indeed.
Chapter 5
Gabe climbed out of his SUV in front of his folks’ old place in Vengeance. The neighborhood had changed a lot since he’d been a kid. Back then it had been shabby, bordering on squalid. But sometime in the past decade, the crowd at Darby College had declared this area funky and cool, and had moved in to gentrify the place. Refurbished bungalows with neat paint jobs and new lawns now lined the street.
As for him, he kind of missed the old days. Coming back here used to remind him of where he’d come from. Who he was. Now it felt foreign and fake.
He supposed he should have expected the news crew parked on his front porch, camera and microphone at the ready. He’d been too distracted to spot the white van before. “Paula Craddock, isn’t it?” he asked. “What do you want?”
“I hear you’re an old family friend of the Merrises. What do you think of Willa’s accusations against James Ward?”
“I think whoever told you I’m a friend of the Merrises was smoking crack,” he snapped.
“You were all over Willa Merris today at the press conference. A regular knight in shining armor for her. It looked to me like the two of you are more than friends.” She added slyly, “A lot more.”
“Climb up out of the gutter onto the curb, Paula. The girl just lost her father, and she’s dealing with a ton of crap right now.”
“Right. The alleged rape. She didn’t look very raped to me.”
An image of Willa cringing away from his touch, her eyes big with fear, flashed through his head. “And what exactly does a raped woman look like?” he snarled.
“Some actual evidence might be nice. Even a few cuts and scrapes would lend a little credibility to her story. Assuming she fought back, of course. For all I know, she liked it rough, and is just suffering a case of buyer’s remorse.”
An urge to bury his fist in the obnoxious woman’s face surged through him. Not that punching a reporter would be anything other than a disaster. Instead, he asked smoothly, “Are you sure you’re actually human, Ms. Craddock? You have all the compassion of a rock.”
The cameraman nearly dropped his camera as he tried unsuccessfully to stifle his laughter. The reporter scowled. Not only was she not getting the sound bite she was looking for, but she seemed to realize she was losing control of this interview.
She pointed the microphone at him again. “Yes, but what do you think of the charges against James Ward? Are you with everyone else in believing that Willa Merris made up this alleged rape in a desperate, and frankly pitiful, attempt to use her father’s notoriety to get attention for herself?”
“Is that what everyone else believes?” he asked blandly.
“Absolutely. I gather, then, that you concur?” She shoved the microphone under his nose expectantly.
“I think you’re a pushy hack who doesn’t give a damn about reporting the truth, and who’s looking to claw your way past anyone who gets between you and fame. If we’re talking about pitiful and desperate, let’s take a closer look at you, shall we?”
The cameraman guffawed with laughter, and Paula growled at the guy to stop filming. She turned on Gabe, glaring venomously. “I can make your life a living hell, you know. I can dig up plenty of dirt on you.”
He stepped forward until he was chest-to-chest with the woman. “There’s one small flaw with your big threat, darlin’. I don’t give a tinker’s damn what anyone thinks of me. Say whatever you want about me because I. Don’t. Care.”
She took an involuntary step backward, and the cameraman made an amused sound behind her. If possible, the reporter’s gaze became even more enraged. Gabe brushed by her and stabbed the key in the front door lock.
He half turned and commented casually, “By the way, you’re trespassing on private property. I’m going inside and fetching my shotgun. If you’re still on my porch when I return, I’ll assume you mean me harm and will shoot you where you stand in accordance with Texas homestead laws.”
He stepped inside the dim interior and closed the door gently. He did, indeed, cross the living room and take his grandfather’s shotgun down from its brackets over the rough-sawed cedar mantel. Gabe had learned long ago never to make any threat he wasn’t prepared to follow through on. Otherwise, it made people think you were weak.
He opened the front door, shotgun in hand, and was gratified to see Paula scuttle the rest of the way to the KVXT van in an undignified scramble of legs, microphone wires and stiletto heels. She was still scowling furiously at him as the vehicle peeled away from the curb in a hurry.
No doubt about it, that woman was going to be trouble. But it was nothing he couldn’t handle. A billion-dollar bank account gave a man the power to get rid of pests like her. He didn’t usually make a practice of throwing his weight around, but he could make an exception for her.
An ugly and unfamiliar feeling crept past his irritation, though. Shocked, he identified it as fear. Obviously, the reporter had set her sights on breaking down Willa’s story of being raped. Probably thought she could weasel a Pulitzer out of it for herself. Who cared if she destroyed the life of a victimized young woman who’d just tragically lost her father?
Yup, Paula Craddock was going on the list with James Ward of people to teach a lesson to.
* * *
Willa rubbed her eyes and took a sip of the now-cold coffee sitting beside her. She’d been in her father’s office for hours, combing through his files on the computer there.
It hurt to go through his private correspondence like this. She could almost hear him saying the things written in his emails and memos. She’d mostly gotten over her disbelief that her father was dead, but the sharp ache of loss still stabbed at her. No matter how big a bastard he might have been, he was still her father. She’d spent the better part of her life trying to please him and had basked in his approval whenever he’d doled out a smidgen of it to her.
Larry Shore had grudgingly handed over the passwords to get into the encrypted portions of her father’s machine, and had then departed hastily, leaving her to sort out the jumbled mess for herself. If her father had a system for filing anything, it was certainly eluding her.
A few things about her father’s life as a senator were becoming clear, however. He was firmly hooked into the good ol’ boy network. Most of what he accomplished was done through under-the-table trades and mutual back-scratching arrangements. Her father didn’t appear to have even the slightest sense of ethics or fairness in how he chose to support or oppose various pieces of legislation. It was all about what he could get from someone else.
Although she’d been aware of his horse-trading style, a tiny part of her had hoped he’d had at least some small shred of conscience. That once in a while, he voted on a bill because it was the right thing to do. Instead, she even found an email from him to a
junior senator berating the young man for voting with his conscience. Her father’s letter closed with a line declaring that conscience had no place in politics.
Was that why her father had been killed? If only the police could make some headway in identifying her father’s murderer. Maybe she’d be less jumpy at night and sleep better. Even if all they discovered was why he’d been killed, that would be better than this giant black hole hanging over her family.
She clicked on yet another file and scanned through a mind-numbingly dull list of people to pressure into delaying a vote on something or other having to do with oil companies’ right to privacy. It had to do with proposed legislation that would force oil companies to turn over complete lists of the chemical formulas of the liquids they injected into the ground as part of extracting oil and gas from shale rock.
The technique, hydraulic fracturing, commonly called fracking, involved pumping water and a propriety blend of chemicals underground to break up oil and release it from the rock it permeated.
She clicked on the next email, and started as a bright red screen popped up, warning her that the contents were classified. What had Larry said about that? It had been hours ago and her brain was fried. She pulled out the piece of paper she’d scribbled all her father’s passwords on and tried the main one that he supposedly used for just about everything. It didn’t work. She tried the others, and of course, it was the very last one that caused a new folder to pop up on her screen. It was labeled only Senate CMA.
She clicked on the first file. The letterhead made her frown. Senate Committee on Miscellaneous Affairs? She’d never heard of it. But apparently, her father was a member. She paused in her reading to do an internet search of the term and frowned as a message blinked, “No result matches your search.” It must be some sort of secret committee. She wasn’t so naive as to think that everything Congress did was known to the public.