38

Jane couldn’t stop looking at the front page of the online Sunday Register, her story front and center. Sitting cross-legged on her bed at the New Englander Hotel, laptop balanced on her knees, she had to admit it looked great.

Nothing about the Bridge Killer, she noted. Take that, roomie. Jake, she thought. She needed to talk to him about Amaryllis Roldan. Whoever that was.

She zoomed in on the article. Her byline. Her name on the cutline under the photo. A pretty good photo, too, showing a chaos of blurry arms and heads, features mostly blasted out by the flash, but you could see one woman who seemed to be in tears, and someone else who seemed to be laughing. A red, white, and blue Lassiter banner was somehow in perfect focus in the background, though you could read only LASS.

She needed to show Alex the other shots, the ones with Kenna Wilkes. She could do that when she got back. They showed the same person as in Archive Gus’s photos, anyway, so no biggie. They were good backup, though. Evidence. Proof.

She read her article one more time. It had the hotel’s mealymouthed “we’re investigating” statement. And quotes from a couple of eyewitnesses she’d found in the lobby. In the newspaper’s version of “balance,” she used one guy criticizing the Lassiter campaign for its “lack of preparation and inability to organize a simple event” and another saying “it was a prank or a mistake, who cared, no one was hurt and it all had a happy ending.”

The Lassiter statement was a study in political rope-a-dope, essentially meaningless, about the “fog of campaigning in these exciting times leading up to election day” and “enthusiasm and understanding of the Lassiter supporters” in his “increasingly successful campaign.”

Jane had pushed a reluctant Trevor about the possibility of a dirty trick, some kind of ploy by the Gable campaign. Sanctioned by them, or some renegade trickster. But he’d clammed up. She put that in her story, too. “Lassiter campaign staff refuses to speculate on questions about opposition sabotage, saying, ‘The lights went out. It could happen to anyone.’”

And Alex had headlined it LASSITER RALLY DISRUPTED. Not Lightgate.

She saved the story to her laptop’s hard drive. Jane Ryland, newspaper reporter. She still had the right stuff. Now, time to go home.

Jane jumped into the shower, then, wrapped in the hotel’s fluffy white terry cloth robe, brushed her teeth with the toiletries she’d gotten from the front desk. She scrabbled her hair dry and checked her reflection in the mirror. Tired. But curious. Curious about Kenna Wilkes.

Jane had flat-out lied to Moira Lassiter the night before. She turned away from the mirror, leaning on the marble bathroom counter, replaying that episode. What was she supposed to say? Yes, Mrs. Lassiter, I did see a bombshell woman, she checked in at the same time as your husband, and I saw them together at the rally, cooing double entrendres at each other. I even took their photos.

Jane knew a good story when she saw one. But she was still so—what was the word?—skittish. What if she was wrong? Her chest tightened at wrong.

She’d reassured Mrs. Lassiter that she was on the lookout, understood her concern, and would talk to her when she got back to Boston. Seemed like Moira bought it. That gave Jane time to think about Kenna Wilkes before she—

Wait. Maybe Kenna was still here. It was only nine thirty in the morning.

She picked up the phone, punched zero.

“Front desk. Good morning, Miss Ryland. What can we do for you?”

That still creeped her out, how they could tell who was calling.

“Is Gina on this morning?” Jane asked.

“One moment, please.”

Good.

“This is Gina. Good morning, Miss Ryland. I trust you enjoyed your stay.”

Her voice was guarded, formal. Jane followed suit.

“Yes, lovely. I’ll be checking out momentarily, if you could prepare my bill. May I ask, did—‘my friend’ check out, too?”

Jane heard some keyboard clicking.

“Yes, ma’am, that appears to be correct. Around ten last night.”

A moment of silence.

“They all checked in together,” Gina continued, whispering. “The big guy. The other guy. And your friend. They all checked out together, too.”

*   *   *

“We should drop Mrs. Wilkes off at that lovely home in Deverton first.” Owen Lassiter, rested and chatty, sat in the front seat of the SUV. Kenna occupied her usual spot in the back. Watching. Listening. Taking it all in.

They were two exits away from Boston, midmorning Sunday, after coffee and baskets of pastries in the dining room of the Worcester Sheraton. He’d shaken fifty hands during breakfast, Kenna calculated. Signed autographs, gotten fawned over by hotel workers and guests. He’d introduced her and Rory as “campaign staff.”

“When’s little Jimmy getting back from his grandparents?” Owen asked her.

Kenna wondered if he’d called Moira. Didn’t matter. There was the truth-truth, and there was her truth. Poor Moira would never be quite certain which was which.

“Governor, that’s so kind of you. But your home is closer, isn’t it, than mine? Jimmy’s fine, still at his Gran’s. Please don’t worry about me.” She prattled ahead. “And I know Mrs. Lassiter will be happy to see you. Finally. After all the commotion.”

Rory gave a thumbs-up, agreeing. “We’re taking you straight home, Governor. You told Moira ten thirty. We don’t want to keep her waiting. We don’t want her to worry, right?”

Kenna fingered her newest acquisition, a sleek pink plastic bottle of shampoo from the Worcester Sheraton. You never know. She fluffed her hair and slid on her tortoiseshell sunglasses, very Jackie O.

Moira stood at the front door, waiting. Kenna could see her silhouette behind the glass, framed by white crown molding and curling ivy. As they pulled into the curve of the driveway, Mrs. Lassiter stepped outside. That icy blond hair, somehow coiffed perfectly even on a Sunday morning. White turtleneck, some kind of fuzzy white vest. Fuzzy boots. The woman looked like frosting on a cake. Like meringue. Like money. She held a mug.

She raised it, saluting their arrival, as the SUV stopped. But she didn’t move from the porch. Didn’t come out to meet her husband, not even halfway.

“Thanks, Rory. Thanks, Kenna. You’re both good sports,” Owen said. “Ror, you’ll call me about the rest of the day. And any update on the developments in the lights thing.”

Rory started to say something, but the governor stopped him with a palm.

“Check it out. I don’t like it. And then we’re clear till tomorrow, right? Monday morning meeting, then—”

“It’s all good, Governor,” Rory said. “Go in. The election’s coming. It’ll be your last day off for a while.”

“If we win.”

“We’ll win.”

The governor clicked open his door, and Rory popped the hatchback where the overnight bags were stowed.

Kenna hopped out, came around behind the car. Why not? No reason for her to sit in the backseat after Owen was gone, right? She smoothed her jeans over her rear, then gave a little stretch, making sure her black turtleneck came just a bit untucked. Oh, such a long car ride.

She waved at Moira, breezy and casual. And closed her door. She glanced over to see what Moira and her husband were doing. Moira was gesturing at her. Kenna put a hand up to her cheek, as if to hide her face. Why not.

“All set?” Rory asked, turning on the ignition.

“Oh, yeah,” Kenna said. “Set and match.”