Page 74 of Love Her

“I may not be watching. I’ll text you before I go to bed though.”

She inhaled to ask me where I’d be, and then thought better of it, offering me the same privacy that I’d given her, earlier. “I love you,” she said simply.

“I love you too. Now get outta here, before I put you back against the glass.”

I waited till she left, and the dot that represented her on my map was on the move. Judging from her path she was taking the subway—an interesting choice, but I respected it.

And once her dot reached her apartment building, I felt safe enough switching screens, to text Sable.

You know how you like to snoop?

Of fucking course.

Someone in Lia’s past hurt her.

Figure out who.

40

LIA

The next day I got up early to go to hair and makeup, because I was scheduled to attend a luncheon with the Hearth Committee—and I already knew it was going to be more like an interrogation.

The Hearth Committee had been founded decades ago by some politician’s wife, for politician’s wives, and if Arnold’s prep was to be believed, it was one part tea ceremony, another part hand-to-hand combat, with brass knuckles made out of diamonds and pearls.

My driver let me off in front of the sedate Hamptons estate where the current leader of the Committee lived, and I straightened the line of my very beige slacks before walking to the door.

A servant opened it before I could even knock. “Welcome, Lia, is it?” she said.

And then I realized it wasn’t a servant, it was Maribeth Tolliver, Senator Tolliver’s wife—the senator who wasn’t running for re-election this season. I’d seen her in the papers before, and also on TV, smiling blandly at her husband’s right-hand side.

But she seemed different in person, especially as she was waving a martini.

“Mari—Mrs. Tolliver,” I said, in surprise.

“You can call me Maribeth. We’re all friends here,” she said, giving me a secret smile, before letting me into the house further. I passed a bone-white foyer full of oil portraits, and at the end of the hall there was a drawing room full of women wearing Very Classy Things.

And judging from how many of them seemed to be on their third, or higher, drinks, they’d all kicked this off as a brunch, earlier in the day, without me.

“You can sit by me,” Maribeth said, settling down onto an overstuffed couch and patting the empty space beside herself. “This is Anne, Lauren, Brooke, and Martha,” she said, going around the room. All of them were somewhat equidistant from one another, like police considering a crime scene. “Not everyone could make it out to meet you today, on such short notice.”

“Yes, well,” I said, ducking my head down a little. “I appreciate the invite.”

An actual servant appeared, and Maribeth’s eyes pinned me. “Sweet, sour, or straight up?” she asked.

“I’ll drink whatever you’re having. I don’t want to be a bother.”

“I doubt you could be,” Anne said. Her legs were crossed and an elegant Manolo heel was swinging from her toe.

I knew she was Anne Whitmore, and her husband was an incredibly large donor to the Tolliver campaign—Arnold had given me information on all the people who might be here, and quizzed me on them like we were playing the game Guess Who? on the helicopter ride over.

“Yes, well,” I said, graciously accepting my drink from the butler who brought it. “I look forward to getting to know all of you. Both now, and in the future.”

Maribeth took a resigned inhale and gave me a puckered smile. “We don’t think that’s going to happen.”

I stopped, just before taking a sip of my drink, on the off chance it was poisoned. “May ask why?”

“Because,” Martha said. Her blonde hair was aggressively bobbed, and she trailed short round red nails up her slacks—they were the color of blood. “We’ve known Marcus for ages. We were friends with both of his ex-wives.”

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