19

“Your husband may be having an affair?” For a billion dollars, Jane could not have predicted that Moira would be the one asking her about it, not the other way around. Moira Lassiter’s bombshell landed square in her lap, and now she had about zero seconds to figure out what to do with it. But there it was. Even off the record, it couldn’t be unsaid. “Mrs. Lassiter? Ah—I’m so sorry. I’m not quite sure how to respond.”

Moira’s hands seemed steady as she poured steaming golden tea into one delicate cup, then the other. She gestured one of them to Jane. “Sugar?”

“Mrs. Lassiter?” Was Moira—in denial? On medication? Crazy? If she was blurting out stuff like that to strangers, no wonder she was home. Maybe the campaign bigwigs had grounded her. Perhaps not a bad plan.

But what was Jane supposed to do with this? What they don’t teach you in journalism school.

“Please, call me Moira.” The candidate’s wife smiled and reknotted the soft sweater draped around her shoulders. Ignoring her tea, she took another sip of her water. “Now that I’ve given you ‘the scoop.’”

“Well, that’s, ah, an understatement,” Jane said. Questions jockeyed for the front row. Red-coat woman? Someone else? Moira didn’t look nuts. But certainly the biggest question of all was her motive. Why on earth would she divulge such a suspicion? To a reporter? “Might I ask—why would you tell me that?”

“Because—because I’m not sure it’s true. But how am I supposed to find out? It’s not like someone’s sending me photos. I can’t ask Owen, of course. Because true or not, he’d deny it. They always deny it. And the more they deny it, the truer it seems.”

Jane took a sip of tea. Moira had a point.

“I’ve seen those other wives. Hillary. Jenny Sanford. Silda Spitzer. Maria. You can picture them, all those news conferences and awkward interviews,” Moira went on. “My heart went out to them. They’d believed in their husbands. Trusted them. Supported them. Devoted their lives to them. And then, in one headline, or one video clip, it’s all … just over.”

Jane nodded. Kept silent. Maybe this will make sense in a minute.

“But it always comes out, doesn’t it?” Moira fiddled with her pearl bracelet. “They all think they’re the ones who’ll manage to keep it quiet, manage to have their careers and their women, too. But they can’t. They can’t. If my husband is having an affair, you media people are going to find out sooner or later. And it’s not only Owen’s life that’ll be ruined. My life will be ruined, too.”

She narrowed her eyes at Jane.

“After being married almost twenty-two years, giving up my career, being the candidate’s wife and the governor’s wife and then the businessman’s wife and now the candidate’s wife again, and always in the background, my life becomes the footnote. Well. I won’t have it.” She took a sip of her water, seemed to be considering.

“For instance,” she went on. “Where is Owen now? His campaign schedule has him out in Springfield. Until recently, I’d have been there with him. The crowds loved me. Loved our marriage. Loved us together. But oh, somehow, not anymore. Now, according to Mr. Rory Maitland, I’m no longer needed.”

“The campaign consultant? Told you—?”

“Oh yes, in no uncertain terms. Rory told me the polls showed I’m ‘unpopular.’ ‘Too reserved.’” Moira closed her eyes briefly. “He said their internal poll numbers showed I interfered with Owen’s female demos. As Rory so delicately put it, I was ‘in the way’ when it came to women voters. So he told me he’d handle it all, but it would be best if I ‘had the flu.’ Or was ‘tired.’ This is off the record, remember, as we agreed. But that’s ridiculous. He’s lying to me. He’s covering something up.”

“And that’s why you’ve been off the campaign trail? You were told to stay home?”

“Owen and Rory are inseparable,” Moira replied. She stood, picked up her water, edged past the coffee table, and stood in front of the fireplace, arms crossed. Almost a silhouette in the already-darkening afternoon, the fire glowing behind her. “He’s new to the campaign. A hired gun, here for the duration only. And Owen relies on everything he says. I think Rory knows about her. He’s helping Owen hide her. Until after they win, of course. Then they’ll go to Washington. What if I wind up as another one of those poor wives, pushing their redemption books on TV talk shows?”

Over my head. I’m in over my head. Even if Jane ran out of the room with her hands over her ears—la la la, I can’t hear you—Moira Lassiter already started the dominoes falling. It’s what Jane suspected all along. What the holy hell was she supposed to do now?

Jane had to ask.

“Who?” she said. “Who is this other woman? Would you know her if you saw her?”

Moira shook her head. “No. But when you called, asking why I wasn’t making campaign appearances, I knew the sh— Well, it was about to hit the fan. As they say.”

“But…”

“Sheila King, the press secretary? Knows Rory is insisting I lie low,” Moira went on. “But I found a phone number in Owen’s jacket pocket. The phone was disconnected. Another time, I found a matchbook from some hotel. I’m putting two and two together. As you would. You weren’t going to let go of your ‘Where’s Moira?’ story, correct? And that’s the problem I had to solve.”

“But I never said—,” Jane tried again.

Moira kept talking. “Erase me from the campaign? No. Rory’s not going to get away with it. Cover-ups don’t work. We have to get in front of this.” Moira jabbed her palm with a finger. “Face it. Handle it. That’s why I need you to find out what’s true. Find her. Stop this.”

Crazy. Nut city. Over the edge. There is no reason—

But there was. A reason that took Moira’s whole unbelievably twisted story and twisted it back the other way.

Jane had to ask.

“Forgive me, Mrs. Lassiter,” Jane said. “But if your husband is having an affair, and it becomes public knowledge, Eleanor Gable’s campaign would instantly cash in on that. It’s likely your husband would lose the election. So I need to ask you. Are you hoping Gable wins? Do you want your husband to lose?”