Page 73 of The Senator's Wife

Next, she rang Camille, speaking before her daughter even finished saying hello. “I just heard from Emmy. She’s not spoken to Sloane in days. Whit has fired Doris. Something is very wrong. We need to go over in the morning and see what the hell is going on.”

“They fired Doris?”

Rosemary recounted what Emmy had told her. “Is it a problem for you to take off and come with me in the morning?”

“No, of course not.”

“Good. I’ll have Anthony drive me. We’ll pick you up at nine.”

Rosemary clicked off and sat back in her chair, feeling a growing apprehension. She’d assured Emmy that everything would be fine, but she knew her words were hollow.

- 58 -

SLOANE

Sloane spit out the sleeping pill Whit had given her and slid out from underneath the covers, her legs wobbly as she stood. She’d known for sure something was going on between Athena and Whit when, the other night, she’d crept to her window to overhear their conversation on the patio as they sipped wine together like they were the married couple in the house. The words Whit spoke, his voice warm and mellow, had been carried up to her with the night air. Words like “soul mates” and “life together.” She hadn’t been able to clearly hear their entire conversation, but there was no mistaking that Whit was romancing Athena. The young woman’s face in the moonlight was filled with adoration as she looked up at Whit. Sloane had felt her stomach drop as she’d watched Whit touch Athena’s hand.

She glanced at the clock on her nightstand: 9p.m. A flash of headlights caught her attention, and she moved to the window. She watched as Athena got into the passenger seat of the Porsche, with Whit at the wheel. Where were they going at this hour? She disarmed the alarm and with great difficulty crept from the bedroom and walked to the hallway. The effort caused beads of sweat to roll down her neck. Athena’s bedroom door was open, and the room was empty. She hobbled to the stairs and looked up. Maybe her computer was in the guest room where Whit was staying. She got up, not bothering to disarm the room chime since she was alone in the house.

She wasn’t sure she had the strength to climb the stairs to the third floor, but she had to try. Inhaling deeply, she steeled herself and clutched the banister. Taking each step slowly, she pausedto breathe between them, terrified of falling and hurting her hip. When she reached the top of the stairs, she sat on the landing and drew her knees up to her chest, willing her furiously beating heart to slow down. As her breathing became easier, she inched along the corridor, pain slicing through her body, until she reached Whit’s bedroom. His door was closed, but a faint light shone from beneath it. She pushed it open and went in. The bed was made, and Whit’s colognes and sundry items neatly arranged on the dresser. She walked over to it and opened each drawer, but no computer, only Whit’s clothes. Moving to the closet, she opened it and saw pants, jackets, and suits—most were still in the closet in the bedroom they normally shared. Like the rest of the room, everything was arranged neatly. A few pairs of shoes on the floor, some shoeboxes on the top shelf.

Sloane blew out a breath. A small leather briefcase caught her attention. She’d bought Whit a Peter Millar for his birthday a few months ago, so what was this? Reaching up, she pulled it down, took it over to the bed, and opened it. Inside was a manilla folder. She pulled it out and began to read. As she did, a paralyzing chill went through her. It was a report. From Rosemary’s friend Mac.

Her heart began to thud. How had Whit gotten this report—the one that Rosemary wasn’t able to find? If the report went missing the night Rosemary was attacked, that would mean Whit was involved. Had he been the one to attack her? But why? A wave of dizziness came over her, and she put her head between her legs. In a few minutes it passed, and she sat up again to read over the report. When she reached the part about the HUD ribbon cuttings, she thought of Whit’s idea to combine government housing with her new initiative at the foundation. What in the hell had he gotten involved in?

Clutching the folder, she returned the briefcase to the closet and sat back down on the bed to catch her breath. She had to call Camille! Suddenly, she felt something drip onto her hand and sawthat her nose was bleeding. She jumped up, looking at the bed to make sure no blood had landed there. Whit couldn’t know she’d been in here. She went to his bathroom to grab a handful of tissues and held one against her nose. She needed to get back downstairs before Whit and Athena returned to the house. She was about to leave the bathroom when she decided to look through the drawers in the vanity. Pulling them open one at a time, she saw each was neatly arranged with toiletries. When she opened the bottom drawer, she noticed a small red box nestled in the back corner. She reached in to grab it. Flipping it open, she gasped out loud. It was a Patek Philippe World Time watch. The same watch Peg’s father had always worn and had been claimed for insurance money. Just like the one that burned in the fire that had killed him! She’d never seen a watch like this on Whit’s wrist.

Sloane picked it up and, hoping against hope that it was just a coincidence, turned it over. Engraved on the back were the initials JMB—James Mitchell Barkley—Peg’s father. How had Whit gotten the watch that supposedly burned in the fire? A terrifying thought occurred to her. Could Whit have set the fire?

Sloane put it back and fled from the room.

She began to tremble, her whole body cold and shaking. Only because adrenaline was coursing through her was she able to scramble back to the stairs and thud painfully on her butt back down to her bedroom. Slamming the door and pushing a chair up against it, she collapsed, panting. They were planning to kill her. She had to do something. But what? She was at their mercy. They could do whatever they wanted, and there was no one here to stop them. It struck her like a thunderbolt now, the reason she could never get through to anyone or receive calls from Emmy or Rosemary or Camille. Whit had to have blocked their numbers on her phone, but she could unblock them! Had he intercepted her email from Carlson Labs too?

Think,she ordered herself. First, she’d call 911. Tell them tocheck Whit’s bedroom for the evidence. Then she’d call Emmy and the others. Tell them to come. Her breathing was growing more regular now. Sloane hobbled to the nightstand and swept her hand across its top, feeling for her phone. The phone, she realized with horror, that wasn’t there.

- 59 -

ROSEMARY

The car pulled up to the tall building on Connecticut Avenue, and Rosemary peered out the window as Camille exited the glass lobby doors. Anthony knew better than to get out and open the car door for her. From the time she was a child, Camille had insisted that she could open her own door, thank you very much. A blast of cold air shot in with her as she slid next to Rosemary and gave her a quick hug.

“Good morning. I hope you slept better than I did. I couldn’t stop thinking about Sloane all night, and that driving rain was so loud I could barely sleep,” she said to her mother.

“I’m afraid I didn’t sleep much either. Thank heavens it’s stopped.” Rosemary’s back was rigid, her hands clasped on her lap, and the two women remained silent as Anthony maneuvered through the busy Washington streets. The drive took just twenty minutes, but every minute seemed like an hour. As the car pulled into the driveway and up to the front entrance, Rosemary felt a tightness in the pit of her stomach and closed her eyes, seeing in her mind’s eye all the times her son had stood there to greet her when she arrived at this house.

Camille put a hand on her leg. “Are you all right, Mom?”

Rosemary opened her eyes. “I’m fine. Let’s go.”

Anthony had the wheelchair waiting before opening Rosemary’s door, helping her into it. “Shall I push it for you?” he asked Camille.

“I’ll take her. It might be better if Mom and I go to the door alone,” Camille said, and guided Rosemary’s chair to the front door, avoiding the puddles on the walkway. She rang the bell andthey waited. And waited. Camille rang again. This time the door opened, and Whit stood before them, making a great show of looking at his watch and frowning.

“What are you doing here?” His tone was unwelcoming.

Rosemary wished she could jump up from her chair and knock his jaw off with her fist. “We’ve come to see Sloane,” she said, glaring at him.

“I’m sorry, but she’s sleeping. You’ll have to come back another time. And please call before you come. I feel bad that you wasted a trip, but the doctor has asked me to keep visitors away. It’s cold and flu season. We can’t risk her catching something. And she can’t have visitors tiring her out.” He gave them a small smile. “I’ll let her know you were here, and that you send your best.”

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