The next afternoon, I use press credentials to get into an event for the very first time.
I never set out to be this kind of journalist. I’ve always wanted to write long-form narratives that take months to research and craft. But time is now of the essence, and it turns out that my Melinda Gray pseudonym—and a quick email from my agent—is enough to get credentialed for the Canadian Embassy lunch I couldn’t otherwise get a ticket to. This is the endgame I was angling at for weeks.
I wear a blonde wig that matches the ID I have for Melinda Gray and pop on a pair of glasses, too. Not that the catering staff would notice or care if they saw me in the crowd, but one can never be too careful when one is juggling multiple identities.
Feeling very exposed, even in my disguise, I give my name to the security guard and hand over my bag to be searched. There’s nothing out of line in there. A small laptop, a voice recorder, two cell phones, a wallet with Melinda Gray ID in it, a tube of dark plum lipstick, and a pack of gum.
The bag is handed around the metal detector I’ve just walked through, and I’m waved into the party.
My goal here is two-fold. I need to get close enough to the guest of honor, the Prime Minister’s principal secretary, to send them a message by Bluetooth proximity. And if I can—
I skid to a stop as I round a corner.
In front of me is Jason Evans on the phone. He has his back to me, but I’d recognize the shape of him anywhere.
This is too much of a coincidence. I slow down, the chain of events replaying in my mind. Jason at the party, cozying up to the French Ambassador’s wife. Did that have something to do with Mayfair, or is he playing another angle, for his own purposes.
Or another client.
Now that I know Jason is running interference for Mayfair, I know the story Kendra Browning asked about, the dump of information on wealthy people who Lively interacted with, has legs. What I can’t figure out is what it might have to do with France and Canada.
Something stinks.
As I close the distance between us, I catch part of his conversation. Whoever he’s talking to, he’s reassuring them, his voice silky smooth. “Don’t worry about it. The press is always sniffing in the wrong corners.”
Well, if that isn’t just the best cue for me to slide into view.
His gaze goes cold when he catches sight of me, and he ends the phone call.
I give him a light smile. “Is that what you think of us? Is it a general thought, or did you have any specific reporting in mind?”
He grabs me by the wrist and tugs me around his body, as if he’s shielding me from the room I’ve just been standing in on my own two feet, like a grown-up. “You shouldn’t be here.”
The urge to roll my eyes is strong. “Why not?”
He doesn’t have an answer for that. His jaw flexes in visible frustration.
“I’m a big girl, Jason.”
His eyes glint, his gaze going steely as he moves closer. “Jason? You use my name like we’re friends?”
We’re definitely not. “I would never make that mistake.”
His mouth twists. “Once upon a time, you called me Mr. Evans and listened to what I said.”
We weren’t friends then, either. “That was a role I was playing.”
“For a story?”
“For reasons.”
He’s voice takes on an edge. “Was all of it a role? Play acting?”
Same line of questioning as yesterday. Fine. If he wants to ask that kind of question, I’ll give him an answer. “Yes.”
He sneers. “Liar.”
What’s new? “You think whatever you want. I’m working. Sniffing in the right corners, I promise you.”
He watches me as I dart away. I feel his gaze on my skin, and it hurts. I miss the west coast. Being here in D.C. makes me feel empty inside, a hollow, angry shell that’s dangerously brittle.
Secrets are security, but they’re also walls that keep people out, and nothing makes that more obvious than having to run smack into one’s past over and over again.