Page 94 of Blind Prophet

What am I doing?

He’s addictive. It’s a slippery slope, and one I didn’t navigate well at all years ago. The resulting fall fractured me. It took years to mend, and I bear the scars. Are the scars strong enough to prevent me from repeating past mistakes? Probably not.

But no, they are. I will return home to my job and my newfound friends and to the cute little cottage I found within walking distance of State Street. I am experiencing a momentary lapse in reason. As long as I keep my feet on the ground and my mind focused, I’m good.

Once he’s chief of staff, he’ll be rooted in DC. Andthatis a life I don’t want. Life on a campaign trail? Definitely not.

With a sense of determination that’s undercut by the cool air circulating my tush, I dial Sophia while scanning the vents, searching for a telltale red light. Of course, he claimed there’s no interior surveillance when he’s home, but it’s best to assume I’m being recorded. Although, depending on how often Dorian entertains, maybe not. He and his father have always valued their privacy. He wouldn’t want his nameless staff being aware of what happens between him and his guests.

“Caroline?”

“Yeah. It’s me.” I scooch on the bed, backing up to the pillows stacked along the headboard. “How are things?”

“I’m glad you called. We were debating how best to reach you.”

I’m easily reachable. I also promised to keep in touch.

“Kairi and Erik’s team have uncovered additional information. You need to leave. Get to the airport.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“Be careful what you say. There’s a good chance you’re being recorded.”

We discussed that before I left. I haven’t forgotten. Although, I doubt it’s true…

“Caroline?”

I roll my eyes. Not that she can see. “I’m here.”

“You said his father has dementia. Yes?”

“Yes.” I cross one ankle over the other, settling in for whatever accusations the team has cooked up.

“We’re sending a car to get you. Pack up your stuff, and we’ll tell you when to head to the gate.”

“What? No.” The response is automatic and heartfelt. She’s wrong. They’ve been stabbing in the dark and coming up with conspiracy nonsense, all because no one wants to believe the obvious.

“You still believe he won’t hurt you?”

“I know he won’t.” Again, I feel the truth in my bones. They are off on him.

“If you saw this report, you wouldn’t feel the same.”

“Give me the highlights.”

“We have confirmation Dorian met with arms dealers and government leaders that the CIA holds on a terrorist watch list.”

“What kind of confirmation?”

“Travel records from his private jet plus commercial flights.”

Dorian flies commercial? Doubtful.

“Give me a minute. I’ll log into the portal so I can respond.”

I locate my Arrow-issued laptop with its custom encryption suite, authenticate through three separate security protocols, and access our darknet communications portal. In the protection of my suitcase, it survived the wreck unscathed. In an abundance of caution, I position myself to avoid any possible surveillance angles.

Where I’m situated on the bed, it’s impossible for a camera to have a view of my screen. The ceiling lights aren’t positioned over the bed. There’s a framed landscape photograph behind the bed, and I lift it, scanning to ensure there are no wires. There aren’t. The frame’s clear. I tap away on my laptop.

---