The Other Woman (19 page)

Floor four. Jane thought back. “Hardly. I mean, who knows. It was pitch dark. He was in the middle of the ballroom floor, doing his meet and greet thing, rent-a-cops around him, people pushing to get close and—damn.”
Kenna Wilkes. Gone again
.

“What?” Alex said. “Jane, you sure you’re okay? You’ll be able to get us info and file a story, right? There’s no one else there to cover it.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Jane said.
Kenna Wilkes is still in this hotel. She can’t just disappear
. “I’m fine. Thanks. I’m—listen. Do me a favor. Look up the name Kenna Wilkes, okay?
K-e-n-n-a
. Wilkes with an
e
. There can’t be many people with that name. She’d be like, age twenty-five-ish. Curly hair, blue eyes. Just see.”

“Speaking of
look up,
” Alex said. “Nothing on that Amaryllis name. Who is that, anyway? Tuck is freaking.”

Ah, problem. Jake. Dead girls. Arthur Vick
. “Alex? Later, okay? Let me do this first. I’ve gotta track down the Lassiter people.”

“Great. Call me when you’re ready to file,” Alex said. “I’ll check that name for you. Who’s Kenna Wilkes, anyway?”

Third floor. As Jane swung around the corner to the concrete landing, the stairwell door flew open. She jumped back, barely missed getting slammed by the metal door and run over by the man racing through.

It was Trevor. Trevor Kiernan. He’d know exactly what happened.

“Trevor? Hang on, Alex. Hang on, okay?” Jane recognized the dark-rimmed glasses, the tousled hair, the clipboard. She caught up to him, grabbing his shoulder. “Trevor! It’s Jane Ryland.”

Trevor turned, looking up at her on the step above him. His tie was loose, the collar of his jacket askew, a smudge of what looked like black ink stained his white shirt.

“Jane?” he said. “Jane. Holy crap. You were there?” He paused, adjusting his glasses. Took another step down. “Do you know what happened?”

“Do
I
? Know what happened?” Jane pointed to herself, taken aback. “That’s what I’m supposed to ask
you
.”

Trevor shook his head, mournful, staring down at the concrete steps.

“Trevor? You okay?” Jane put the cell phone back to her cheek. “Hang on, Alex. Trevor? Is Lassiter okay?”

“Lassiter’s—fine. Security took him back to his suite. I’m hoping he’ll make a statement soon. We have no idea what happened. The lights just—went out. Then that crazy alarm starts shrieking.
Blam
.” Trevor flipped a switch in the air, demonstrating. “Blam. Out. Across the entire floor, apparently. The rest of the hotel was fine. Christ, what a friggin’— This completely sucks. A disaster.”

He twisted the corner of his mouth, rueful, then gestured imaginary headlines. “Lights Out for the Lassiter Campaign,” he said. “Can you see it? Gable’s gonna love this. And that’s off the record.”

Jane nodded, listening.
Wonder if Alex can hear this?

“Was it like some transformer thing?” she asked. “Or power outage?”

“We don’t know,” he said. “Call me, say, in fifteen. I’ll let you know where the governor is speaking. I’m sure we’ll have something.”

“It would look pretty bad not to.” Jane couldn’t resist. “Lassiter bailing in the middle of chaos, people freaking out. I mean, if it was an accident—”

“It won’t matter what the truth is, you know? It sucks,” Trevor said, interrupting. “If we can’t run a simple rally, I mean, how can we run the country? That’s what they’ll say. You think we’re gonna get any donations after tonight’s fiasco? And Rory’s trying to make Lassiter—”

He stopped. “Never mind. I gotta go.”

He turned and headed down the stairs, waving his clipboard at her. “Fifteen minutes,” he called out. “Or so.”

Jane waited until he was out of sight. “You hear any of that?” she said into the phone. She continued downstairs slowly, wanting the privacy.

“Kind of,” Alex said. “So I’m thinking—it was some random accident? Or like, electricity overload? A circuit thing? You said it was really hot in there.”

Jane shrugged. “The TV guys weren’t with their cameras at the time. Didn’t get any shots. I did, though. With my still camera. I’ll check ’em out, ASAP. See what I got. This whole rally has been a total mess from moment one. I’ll put it all in my story. And there’s a bunch more. But—”

Jane’s phone beeped, an annoying little whine. “Shoot, Alex, low battery. My charger’s in my room. I’ll call you when I get plugged back in.”

“Jane?” Alex said. “Can you still hear me?”

The cell phone blurped out another warning. “For about two more seconds,” she said. She swung open the door marked
LOBBY
.

“You said to look up Kenna Wilkes.” Alex raised his voice, as if talking more loudly would solve the battery problem. “Who is she?”

Jane paused, considering. She knew the answer, but had zero time to explain it. “She’s the other woman,” she said.

And the phone went dead.

31

“Governor Lassiter, are you all right?” Kenna, wide-eyed and oh-so-concerned, called out to Owen as his entourage trooped down the stairs from the tenth floor. Two security types, both sweaty and worried looking, led the way, scouting as if some danger lurked on the stairs. Rory trudged two steps behind Lassiter. Both men’s jackets flapped open, Rory’s shirt coming untucked. Even Owen’s tie was askew. His silver hair mussed. Each looked beyond annoyed. Enraged, more like it. Kenna fluttered even harder. “I was so worried.…”

“Ah, Mrs. Wilkes. I see you made it out safely.” Lassiter gave a half smile as he took the last few steps down to the landing. The security guards had opened the door and were already in the hallway.

Probably looking for the evildoers, Kenna thought. Happily, Owen wasn’t focusing on
her
whereabouts. “Are you all right?” she asked.

“Well, you’re having quite the introduction to the campaign, I must say. Yes, we all survived the—” He paused, then looked at Rory. “What are we calling it, Rory?”

“We’re calling it nothing at this point,” Rory said. “The hotel people are already all over this. They’re alleging
we
must have done something. Plugged in too much. Had too many people. They’re insisting nothing was wrong with the electrical system. No circuit breakers, no blown transformer. How they know all that so fast is beyond me. Although…” He frowned, then stopped as he reached the landing. Rory crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Although.”

“Although?” Owen turned.

Kenna waited. This was going to be good.

“Say it was the Gable campaign. You know? Sabotage,” Rory said. “All you’d have to do would be—I don’t know—find the main light switch. Turn off the lights. Pull an alarm. And
blam.
Chaos. Campaign dirty trick 101. And we’re semi-screwed.”

“Sabotage?” Owen’s lips pursed, as if he’d never tasted the word before. “But by who? That guest list was vetted, correct? We know everyone who was there. A-listers, you told me.
Damn it
. Excuse me, Kenna. We didn’t even get to make our final money pitch. Now we’re talking in a damn stairwell. And the damn press is going to want some answers.”

He called me Kenna. Finally.
She waited. It’d be interesting to hear what would happen next. She’d take her cue from—she recomposed her face, remembering to look concerned.

“Do you need some privacy?” she said. “This sounds important.”

Rory waved her off. “We trust you, Mrs. Wilkes,” he said.

“And now you’re calling it sabotage?” Owen, ignoring their exchange, adjusted his paisley tie, then did it again. “You’re theorizing someone in the crowd—or someone with the hotel? What does Trevor Kiernan say? Where is he, anyway?”

“I don’t know, Governor,” Rory said. Then seemed to make a decision. “Look. This hotel has been snakebit from moment one. The whole room thing, the elevators, the GD lights. Let’s get you out of here. Before who knows what else goes wrong.”

“Ah, Rory, we need to make some kind of a statement to the press.” Owen, frowning, made the time-out sign with his hands. “I can’t just—”

“I’m afraid I insist, Governor.” Rory took out a cell phone. “We’ll get your stuff, get it downstairs, get on the road. We can make a statement tomorrow. From Boston. When we know the facts. I’ll call Sheila to put out the word that you’re fine. Then call for the car.”

“I’m not sure.…”

“Governor? I insist. This kind of thing only gets worse. Although I don’t see how it can be worse than this. Mrs. Wilkes? Can you be ready in twenty, thirty minutes?”

“Faster than that,” she said.

“Use the service elevators. I’ll tell security. Mrs. Wilkes, we’ll meet you at the car in—”

“I need some food,” Lassiter interrupted, frowning. “And a drink. And possibly a shower. I’m not leaving until after that.”

Maitland raked his hands through what would have been his hair. Looked at his watch. “It’s quarter till nine. We’ll leave at ten. No later,” he said. “Kenna, call room service if you want. Governor, come with me. Christ. I’ve had it with this place. We’re done here.”

Kenna followed them into the hallway, watched Rory use his key card to open the door of the presidential suite. She trotted down the corridor to her own room, passing a fully loaded maid’s cart—towels, soap, little shampoos, trash bags. She looked both ways, then swiped two plastic bottles of body lotion with curlicue labels saying
PRESIDENTIAL SUITE,
tucking them into her pocket. She looked at the campaign brochures she was still holding. Thought for a second. Then shoved them into the trash.

32

Holly could barely wait to see the pictures. Maybe she could take a quick look at them, for one second, here in the hotel corridor?
No, no, no, I need privacy
. She found her blue key card in the pocket of her purse, just where she’d put it, and clicked open her hotel room door. She’d left the lights on, of course. Her heart was beating so fast! Almost like when … She felt herself blushing, remembering.
A kiss in the hallway, a promise made.

She practically fell against the door as it closed behind her. Her knees felt almost weak. She had touched him, he had touched her, they had … had connected.

And Jane Ryland! Actually there! In person! Taking the actual pictures, which was so unexpectedly perfect. She would be so happy when she got the photos. What a perfect, perfect night.

The silly lights had gone out at the rally and the alarm was scary for a second, of course. But even that was so funny. Owen Lassiter, with her, in the dark. She could smell him still. So funny. Owen Lassiter in the dark.

And she had pictures.

She pushed the oval silver button on the camera. Pushed it again.

No.
No.

The stupid camera was taking too long to power up. Broken? Jane Ryland broke her camera? No. No. Maybe it was out of batteries.
Out of batteries?
Holly hit the silver button again, praying. The camera made a little sound, like a mean whisper, like,
No, I’m not showing you the pictures. You were bad.

No, she wasn’t bad! She was good and she was right and it was just a stupid camera and it couldn’t talk and it was a stupid battery and all she needed was the charger.

Had she brought the charger? Oh, no no no. She didn’t have the charger.

Maybe I do.
She yanked open her black wheelie bag, unzipped all the pockets, one at a time, jamming her hands inside, exploring every space where maybe she had been smart enough, good enough, to put the charger. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

The charger was at home in Boston. Hours away.
Maybe I just have to—

She pressed her lips together, very hard, trying not to cry. She needed the pictures. She had to see the pictures. Had. To. See. Them.

Tonight.

*   *   *

It doesn’t matter if I missed the rally.
He didn’t need to hear some speech. Matt felt one fist clench, and that muscle in his neck twitch again. He simply needed to see if Holly was there. This was about stopping her. And protecting Governor Lassiter from whatever the hell she was planning.

The campaign probably didn’t even know anything was wrong. Yet.

He eased his car into the New Englander parking lot, scanning for a spot. Still pretty crowded. A good sign.

If Holly was following the campaign, which is exactly what she would do, she’d still be here as long as Lassiter was here. Would they stay overnight, this far from Boston? He should have asked that Denise girl, but she was already spooked. He was here; he could find out. Not a problem.
It is what it is
.

If Holly was following the campaign, she’d be on it like—like she was on him back then. Started out signing up for the same classes. At first, he’d thought it a coincidence, and she was pretty cute anyway. He’d been nice to her, why not? His first mistake. It took him a while to get the real picture. They’d studied together, gone out a couple of times. No big deal. She was so damn hot. So willing. So what was he supposed to do, say no, go away? He’d kissed her, so what? It was grad school, for godsake.

Then, she’d be in the hallway every time he turned the friggin’ corner. Cookies left at his apartment door. Flowers. Showed up with a whole dinner that time, all jazzed, saying it was their anniversary.
I mean, anniversary of what?

And he was just too—too what? His mother had taught him to be polite, to treat women with respect. She’d drilled that into him every day. And to watch out for the bad ones. He simply hadn’t realized Holly was a bad one. He couldn’t let her hurt the governor.

Matt turned off the ignition, grabbed his overnight bag, pushed through the revolving door, made a beeline for the registration desk. A little after nine o’clock, the lobby was still crowded, and the bar, too. Maybe campaign stuff was still going on upstairs. Maybe Holly was still up there. Maybe she was in the bar. If the governor was there, she’d be there.

Some wimp in a navy blazer, name tag, and plastered-on smile waved him over to the end of the counter. Matt took a hotel brochure and a red apple from a big glass bowl. Why not. He’d be a paying guest soon enough.