CELESTE HAS JOINED LILY AT Eagle’s Nest, just for an afternoon. It’s so good to get away, away from it all, and to be up here with Lily, even if only for a few snatched hours. They’re sitting at a large table in the guesthouse that Lily uses as an on-site campaign war room.
Celeste’s mind wanders for a moment, wanders down two stories below them, down to the bunker, where Erica Sparks awaits the final phases of her transformation. The one that will turn her from a threat into an ally. When she’s ready, they’ll drive her up to Mt. Tamalpais and lead her deep into the woods. She’ll stumble out of the forest, dehydrated, disoriented, hungry—she’d gone on a hike and gotten lost, slept on the mountain. As for her car, it must have been stolen. She’ll believe every word of the story. Because that’s the way her mind will work. Then, after the election Erica—with her clout and gravitas and popularity—will become a leading mouthpiece of the New Order.
Celeste looks over to the built-in bookcases that line one wall. No one would ever suspect that behind one panel lies an elevator. An elevator that can transport you down to . . . heaven.
Rising power.
“A new poll from Georgia shows us pulling ahead,” Lily says, poring over real-time data on her laptop.
“No Democrat has won Georgia since Clinton in 1992,” Celeste says.
Lily picks up a phone. “Frank, flood Georgia with television and social media advertising. Buy everything available. Pull as much staff and as many volunteers as possible from Alabama, which is a lost cause, and get them into Georgia. We’re going to win it.”
After Lily hangs up, there’s a moment of silence. The two women look at each other. What they set in motion twelve years ago—when they searched the political landscape for the perfect vehicle for their ascent and found Mike Ortiz—is about to come to full fruition.
Then there’s a firm knock on the door. Odd. They haven’t summoned any staff. Who could it be?
Lily gets up, crosses to the door, and opens it. A man and a woman in dark suits stand there.
“Lily Lau?” the man asks.
“Who’s asking?” Lily answers.
“Kevin Marcus. This is my partner, Carol Norton. FBI.” They both flash their badges.
Celeste notices Lily’s whole body tense.
“May we come in?”
Celeste feels her pulse start to race. She and Lily exchange a glance.
“Of course. Welcome,” Lily says with a smile, standing back.
“Could I get you a cup of coffee or tea? Water or a fresh juice?” Celeste asks.
“We’re good, thanks,” Agent Norton answers.
“To what do we owe the pleasure?” Lily asks.
“We’d like to ask you both a few questions,” Agent Marcus says.
“About?” Lily asks.
“The disappearance of Erica Sparks.”
Celeste feels a sudden chill at the back of her neck; goose bumps break out on her arms. Cool it. Follow Lily’s lead. Say as little as possible.
“I’m afraid we’re not going to be much help,” Lily says. “We’ve obviously been consumed with the campaign and aren’t paying a great deal of attention to the story . . . But please, have a seat. Ask away.”
The four of them sit at the table. Celeste looks at the agents with concern and a touch of bewilderment.
“A security camera in Fairfax recorded Sparks’s rental car driving northwest on Francis Drake Boulevard at 11:17 on the morning of her disappearance, October 26,” Marcus says, watching the two women intently.
Celeste wills herself not to react as a bead of sweat rolls down from her left armpit. But her breathing grows shallow.
“An eyewitness saw the car on Nicasio Valley Road shortly thereafter,” Norton says.
Celeste feels slightly dizzy. The world is suddenly so quiet, so quiet and still. All she can hear is her heart thumping in her chest. Can the agents hear it? Both of them are expressionless. Now sweat is running down from both her armpits and she’s blinking. Stop blinking.
Lily, on the other hand, seems completely blasé. She picks up her phone and scrolls through. “We were in St. Louis on the twenty-sixth. None of my staff has told me that Erica Sparks made an appearance here. And they certainly would have. But you’re more than welcome to question them yourselves.”
“She was finishing up pieces on both my husband and his opponent. She was in San Francisco to interview Lily for that story,” Celeste says, forcing her voice to stay steady. “But I don’t understand why she would come up here.”
“She interviewed me at the office of Pierce Holdings on October 24. I haven’t heard from her since,” Lily says.
“I admired her integrity so much. It’s a real loss to journalism,” Celeste says.
“So neither of you has any knowledge or information concerning Sparks’s whereabouts on the twenty-sixth?” Marcus asks.
“No,” Lily tosses off.
“None,” Celeste seconds.
There’s a long pause. The agents are still eyeballing them. Finally Norton says, “We’d like to search the houses and grounds.”
“Of course,” Lily says. “I’ll have my caretaker show you around.”
There’s another long pause. The agents just sit there. It feels like a game of chicken.
“I certainly don’t mean to be rude, but we are very busy,” Lily says.
Marcus and Norton look at Lily. She holds their glance. After what seems like an eternity, they look away and seem to shrink a little.
Lily looks at Celeste, and Celeste’s confidence sparks; she decides to press their advantage. “Unless you have any more questions . . . ,” Celeste says. Then she gently caresses her hair with one hand, summoning up the might of her money and privilege and upbringing. She’s the next First Lady. These agents are government employees. In effect, they work for her. They’re little people, dazzled by her $800 haircut and fame and the chic outfit she put on this morning to please Lily, clothes that cost more than they make in a month.
For the first time the agents look around at the expansive, luxurious room.
“May I ask what precipitated your visit?” Celeste asks.
“We’ve gotten a number of calls from interested parties who don’t believe Sparks died in that car accident on Route 1. They think she was either murdered or is still alive,” Marcus says. “They believe that she was investigating some sort of conspiracy that was responsible for the Buchanan bombing and the subsequent murder-suicide.”
“And who are these interested parties?” Lily asks casually.
“We’re not at liberty to answer that question.”
“I still don’t understand what this has to do with us,” Celeste says.
“It’s our job to explore every possibility,” Norton says.
Lily walks over to the bookcase, to the panel that conceals the elevator, and places one hand on one of the shelves and the other on her hip. “That’s completely understandable.”
“I think it would be fitting for my foundation to establish a journalism scholarship in Erica Sparks’s memory,” says Celeste.
“She’s officially missing, not dead.”
“In her honor, then. Please do tell the interested parties of my plan.” Celeste feels a wave of elation—she handled this so well, she can tell Lily is proud of her. She leans forward on the table and smiles a warm, sorrowful smile, saying, “We’re all in this together.” Then she adds, “Are you sure I can’t tempt you with a little lunch?”