by Meli Raine
“I could believe him, you know,” she says as I pull into the big public parking lot on Mark’s street.
“Believe Harry?”
“Yes.”
“Do you?”
“No. But I could.”
“What would you gain from that?”
“Nothing. Maybe a sense of moral superiority?”
I laugh.
“At least it would be something,” she groans as we climb out of the car. “Right now, I have nothing.”
“You have me.”
“Do I?”
“I’m yours for the asking, Jane.”
“I’m not ready to ask, Silas. But you have to give me something. Some kind of win.”
“I’m not a win?”
“I mean it.”
“So do I.”
In the moonlight, her face is so haunting. Dark shadows smudge the skin under her eyes. It pains me to see them.
“How about this,” I offer. “We have Alice’s important papers shipped to your apartment.”
“Here?”
“Yes. Until the mourners slow down. You can start to go through her personal effects.”
“There is a paper Hedding Stuva needs. No one at the ranch can find it.” She’s squinting at her screen. “If I could find that, I can go to D.C., sign the paperwork, and then really start to figure out the whole inheritance.”
“Would that be enough?”
“It’s a start.”
Under the glow of a parking lot light, I send Drew a text explaining the basics. Get a thumbs-up.
He also texts: Where the hell are you?
I reply: About five more minutes. Still at Mark’s?
Yeah. He isn’t so paranoid now. Get your ass over here and find out why.
I’ve only been here once before, about three months ago. We try not to go to each other’s places, especially Mark’s. He’s already got people on his ass from the motorcycle club his biological father infiltrated. The same club that was linked to El Brujo for all the wrong reasons. When deep cover guys in the DEA get involved, the line between good and bad gets blurred. Sometimes so smudged, it starts to look more like a stain than a boundary.
Mark’s father is that stain.
Mark’s brother, Chase, had to fake his own death to get out from the blood oath he took with the motorcycle club. Their father, a former MC gang leader named Galt, lives a cloaked life now, so deep in the field undercover, he can’t come out. No one in this business is ever really safe in their “regular” life, whatever that means.
But Mark and Chase and their dad have extra cause to be careful.
I’m quiet as I lead Jane down the sidewalk to the three-story house where Mark and Carrie, Chase and Allie, and Allie’s sister Marissa and her roommate all live in separate apartments.
“You said Mark lives here?”
“And his brother, Chase. Yes. Mark’s first floor, Chase is second, and Chase’s girlfriend’s sister is up top.”
“Must be nice to have so much family.”
My gut twists.
“You don’t have any? None? Not even an aunt or a cousin?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry. Our family’s small. I have Mom. Kelly. An uncle and two aunts in Minnesota. Seven cousins.”
“My mom came here from Belarus when she was young. She never married...” Jane’s voice goes quiet. I kick myself for bringing it up. She makes me want to take her home to be enveloped by my family. Jane makes me want to give her every happiness she’s been systematically denied. Protecting people is in my blood. My muscles are trained to perform a singular mission: to keep certain people alive.
That isn’t all. Being alive isn’t the same as being happy. Not by a long shot.
“You really are alone in the world.”
“I am.”
My hand reaches for hers before I can think. “You don’t have to be.”
She stops on the sidewalk, a few steps away from the stairs leading up to Mark’s front door. I overstepped. Jane doesn’t move. Doesn’t look up at me.
She doesn’t pull away, either.
You can ache for someone for a long time, living with the lump in your throat that won’t fade. You can yearn for a person you’ve never met. You can live with every square inch of your skin straining against your pulse, trying to set some part of you free that has no name.
And you can suffer in silence for a very long time before meeting the person who has the key to unlock your imprisoned self.
Suffering isn’t honorable. It’s not a test of strength. Being able to burn with pain for a long time doesn’t make anyone superior. It doesn’t confer sainthood.
All that suffering does is brand you. It leaves marks that last forever, deep scratches that displace what should be present and shove it up, creating a sharp edge that makes anything that touches it bleed.
Jane’s skin is soft and cool, dry to the touch. I thread my fingers between hers and look down, enjoying how she tips her chin up to meet my eyes, wondering if the way she leans in is a sign that I’m earning my way back inside her.
Mark’s front door opens. It’s Drew, his face shaded by the dark.
“About time. Get the hell in here, Gentian. This beer won’t drink itself.”
Chapter 12
Jane
Walking into someone’s home when everyone else already knows each other is pretty much the plot of every awkward high school and college dream I had.
Until the nightmares began.
After Lindsay’s attack.
That feeling, like all eyes are on you, is unsettling in an intimate way. It’s different from being in the public eye. The scrutiny of social media can be turned off with a Power button.
This? This I have to endure.
Lindsay walks up to me and gives me a huge hug. It helps. Drew hands Silas a beer, then looks at me.
“You drink?”
“Have you seen my life? Of course I drink. But last time we got together, we didn’t drink because we wanted clear heads.”
Drew holds his beer aloft. “Fuck that. Duff and Romeo are on watch. It’s all good. Besides, I think loosening up could help us brainstorm and figure out this god-awful mess.”
Mark Paulson is coming out of a darkened hallway, carrying pizza boxes. “Hi, Jane,” he says, giving me a nod. Discomfort doesn’t quite describe what it feels like when he looks at me.
Close enough.
“Hi.”
“You drink beer? Wine? We have vodka, too.” He nods toward the kitchen.
“Wine’s fine. Do you have white?”
“Carrie?” he calls back, not too loud. Just enough to carry down the hall. “Do we have white wine?”
“A little. I’ll bring a glass,” says a pleasant, young woman’s voice, if by young you mean my age. She sounds very sweet, a contrast to Lindsay’s brasher tones. I don’t have a sense of my own sound. You can’t objectively judge something if you don’t have distance from it.
Carrie emerges from the hallway, carrying a glass of red and one of white. Her eyes scan the room until she sees me, going from search mode to friendly host.
“Hi! Nice to meet you,” she says, handing me the glass. Long, dark brown hair flows down her shoulders, her face fresh and completely natural. Not a single brush stroke of makeup is on her. She’s wearing an Ed Sheeran concert t-shirt, jeans with holes in them, and a toe ring on her right pinkie toe. I only notice because as soon as she hands me my wine, she finds a spot on the couch and curls into a ball, the light glinting off a tiny stone in the ring.
Mark sits next to her after putting the pizza on a small coffee table. Lindsay and Drew are on the floor, sitting in these beanbag chair things that look really comfortable. I’m left with a loveseat and two kitchen chairs, the difference between the two options stark.
I go for a chair.
It’s less complicated.
Silas takes the loveseat, surveying the room, turning down alcohol.
“I’m going to get down to b
usiness,” Mark says, serious as he takes a ballpoint pen out of a small planner and opens to a page with thick, scrawled notes all over it. “We know now why John, Stellan, and Blaine kidnapped you, too, Jane.”
I look at Silas. I can tell this is new information to him.
“Why?” I ask the question then take a few big swallows of wine. I have a feeling I’ll need it.
“Nolan Corning figured out you’re Harry’s daughter.”
“Oh, hell,” Carrie hisses, looking at Mark, who gives her a grim half smile. I read the newspaper articles about what happened to her. How El Brujo – Dean Landau at our university – set her father up as the fall guy for a meth-making network out of the chemistry department. How her dad died in prison.
If anyone knows what bad guys are capable of, it’s Carrie Myerson.
I burst into tears.
It’s so sudden, my breath disappears. My gut curls up like a sudden twister, the force of the wind inside me taking all the oxygen away.
“How?” Silas asks, looking at me but asking Mark. “How’d he find out?”
“We don’t know.”
“Wait.” Silas’s voice is sinister. Deadly. “You told me a long time ago, Drew, that the attackers were told to get ‘the senator’s daughter.’”
Lindsay gives me a sharp look.
“No,” she whispers. “No.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Drew interrupts. “Corning had Jane taken the second time. Not the first.”
I can’t stop crying. I’m embarrassed and feel a slick coating of shame that is hard to breathe around.
“True. But what if he’s known much longer than we think? What if Stellan, John, and Blaine screwed up the first time?”
“Or what if he wanted them both?” Mark asks.
“But why?” I finally cry out. “Why did he want us? To hurt us, I mean. The obvious reason is that Harry wouldn’t play ball with some legislation that would help El Brujo. That’s not enough to kidnap, rape, and torture an opponent’s children, is it?”
Carrie looks at me with something too close to pity. “That alone might be enough.”
“I can’t fathom that.”
Drew squeezes Lindsay’s shoulder.
“I’d think after what you’ve been through the past year, you would,” Carrie says, not unkindly. “You and your mother were vilified.”
“The only person who is more pissed off at Anya and Jane than Nolan Corning is my mother,” Lindsay jokes.
Mark and Drew both purse their lips, jaws clenching.
“That is a separate line item on my agenda,” Mark says. “Before we get too far in the weeds, let me be clear: El Brujo is dead. His daughter has kept a very anemic amount of his network going, but she’s losing ground daily. At the same time, there are powerful ripples still affecting politics because of him. So we have to untangle this.”
“I brought Carrie in because she might have insight into El Brujo that we don’t have,” Mark declares, clearly unable to strip his pride in her from his voice.
“I think you’re wrong,” she says frankly, “but I’ll never turn down a chance to watch you work and eat some good pizza.” She opens the top box, pulls out a slice, and takes a bite. She says around a mouthful, “Besides, Allie knows more than I do.”
“Who is Allie?” I ask.
Everyone except Lindsay sighs.
“Allie is my brother’s girlfriend,” Mark says slowly.
“Brother? I never heard about a brother – Silas just told me as we got here. My mom told me all about how you’re Senator Thornberg’s only grandson.”
“That’s technically true.”
I frown. “Half brother?”
“Right.”
“Allie was targeted by El Brujo,” Silas tells me.
“And she’s the one who ki –” Carrie starts to say, then stops herself suddenly. “The one who helped corner him before he was shot and killed by Mark’s father. In the line of duty, of course.”
There is a big lie in there somewhere, but I can’t figure it out.
Silas meets my confused eyes. He looks about as bemused as I do.
And then I look at Drew.
“You’re not telling the truth,” I say to him, looking up and away from his face at the others. Carrie turns a shameful pink. Mark’s scalp tightens. Drew says nothing. “Something doesn’t add up about El Brujo.”
“Lots of details don’t add up about him.”
“Why did you interrupt yourself, Carrie? You just said, ‘she’s the one who.’ What does that mean?” I ask, going more on instinct and gut than analysis and questioning. My radar is pinging like crazy.
What is it detecting?
Mark’s eyebrows go up as he looks at Drew, who nods.
“Fine. Jane, this is confidential.”
“Like the rest of this conversation isn’t?” I gawk at him.
“I mean it. No one outside this room and a handful of DEA agents knows the truth about how El Brujo really died.”
“He’s actually dead though, right? This isn’t some witness protection program thing?”
“No. He’s definitely dead. Allie shot him in the face in the storage room at a coffee shop where he was holding kidnapped women for sex slavery.”
“Could you repeat that?”
“I’d rather not. Bottom line: Allie killed him. Not Carrie. Not Galt.”
“Who’s Galt?”
“My biological father. He goes by Galt. Undercover DEA agent in a motorcycle gang.”
“You’re Senator Thornberg’s grandson and your dad is in a motorcycle gang?”
“Not just in it. President.”
“That’s – wow.”
“’Wow’ doesn’t even start to cover it. So the bottom line is this: people want retribution for what happened to El Brujo. His daughter is keeping the drug network going, but the capacity is severely reduced. Nolan Corning had some kind of deal with El Brujo. Monica might be connected to it all. “
“How does this tie in with Lindsay’s attack? I know it was done to derail Harry’s presidential ambitions. They wanted to taint him with scandal. But it’s so dramatic. So extreme.”
“I don’t think we’ll ever know. Some people are just that demented and warped.”
“So the sexual abuse wasn’t – it didn’t have a goal?”
“Other than feeding some perverted need in John, Stellan, and Blaine? No. I think Corning just ran with whatever they gave him as ‘evidence’ and he made it up from there. Don’t assume there was some deeper plan here. These guys aren’t master strategists,” Mark says flatly.
“They’re fetishists.”
“More like power fetishes. Not sex fetishes. They got off on the power.”
“Politics is all about sex and power.”
“It’s a perfect balance. Don’t ever forget that. When you tip one in the wrong direction, it’ll always correct itself.”
I shake my head. “But what did my mom do to make Nolan Corning or El Brujo or whoever is at the heart of this so mad that they had her killed in prison? Officially, she had a heart attack. Right. My mom ran triathlons. No way. Then people tried to tell me she died at her own hand. I’m not convinced she committed suicide.”
Mark lets out a long sigh. Drew nods at him.
“Carrie’s dad died in prison. Allegedly suicide. But he stabbed himself in the heart,” Mark says with meaning.
My body is getting exhausted from all the adrenaline rushes.
“We don’t know. The prison never did an autopsy. Anya was cremated,” Drew adds.
“Against my wishes!”
“And the evidence is lost,” Mark says, giving me a sad look. “We’ll never know. Someone wants to make sure we never know.”
“Can we assume she didn’t kill herself? Make that the default premise?” Silas asks.
“We can,” Drew replies.
“Done,” Silas declares. “No more speculation about suicide.”
My turn to give him a sad
smile.
“You know,” I say to Mark, “my mom really did think she was handing Lindsay off to you.”
Everyone in the room freezes.
“And when she realized what had happened, she was horrified. She always said that you were one of the most honest and trustworthy people in government. That the senator viewed you with a kind of paternal pride.”
Mark looks at me. He’s trying to figure out my motive. I don’t have one.
And yet, I sort of do.
“She said it just like that. Paternal.”
Lindsay’s eyes narrow as she looks at me, then Mark.
“You and I look nothing alike. But Harry is fifty-five years old and could be your father, too, Mark. Is that possible?” I ask him.
Silas
Holy shit.
Jane pulls no punches.
“No,” Mark calmly replies. “It’s not.”
“How do you know?”
“Because we checked,” Drew intervenes. “Already ran the tests. We have labs being run constantly, looking for cross matches on Lindsay. You,” he says to Jane with a glower I don’t like, “are not biologically related to anyone in our database aside from Harry. Not a single cousin, or aunt, or random fifth cousin. Harry is an only child of two only children.”
“Convenient,” Lindsay says. “My mom has a sister, but Daddy doesn’t have siblings.”
“You really are all alone,” I say under my breath.
Jane closes her eyes as she sighs, the sound like tree branches after an ice storm, the light rush of wind allowing the snap of weak twigs under pressure to emerge like a painful symphony.
“I’m not related to anyone but Mom,” Lindsay says. “And so far, no other senator is a hit for being my dad. I need to turn this into a reality television show. Who’s Your Daddy? It could be a thing.”
“Jane spent twenty-five years not knowing who her dad was. You’ve spent a few days,” I say.
Drew gives me a look that says I’m skating right up to an edge.
The skin around Jane’s eyes goes from weary to teary again. Her lips tremble as she lifts her wineglass to them and finishes off her drink. I stand and turn to Carrie.
“Do you have more wine?”
She looks at Jane, her compassion clear.