Page 65 of The Press Secretary's Passion
Oh. My. God.
That’s all that keeps circling around and around in my brain. The images play over and over on replay in my mind. This can’t be happening.
This morning when I woke up, I would have sworn the birds were singing and the sun was shining. It was like I was living in a fairy tale book. The pages of drawings are so bright and happy. I was happy. I had dressed for work with care in a pair of winter-white wide-leg slacks and a dove-gray silk blouse. I threaded a silver belt through the loops and slipped my feet into a pair of dove-gray Louboutins. I curled my hair delicately around my shoulders and applied soft makeup to my face before threading my diamond studs into my ears and wrapping my watch around my wrist.
I climbed into my car and drove toward the capitol, stopping at my favorite coffee drive-thru for a skinny vanilla latte and a sesame bagel with cream cheese. You can take the girl out of New York, but you can’t take New York out of the girl. I ate in the car and wiped my mouth with a napkin as I pulled into my usual spot in the White House staff parking lot.
I turned off my car and pulled my lipstick from my purse to touch up my face in the sun visor’s mirror. I flipped it back up, tossed my lipstick tube back in my purse, and grabbed my keys from the ignition. I made my way through the security line and then headed down the hallway toward my office. I dropped my purse in the bottom desk drawer and fired up my computer.
And that was the last normal thing I did today, because after that, everything changed.
I spot a large manila envelope in my inbox tray, and I scoop it up. My name is printed on the front in bold handwriting, and I wonder what it could be. I don’t usually get big packages like this, so it surprises me.
I fold open the little silver prongs and peel back the flap. The envelope is stuffed solid with papers, and I turn it upside down over my desk and shake the contents out.
A stack of glossy black-and-white eight-by-tens and a note scrawled in a masculine hand fall out all over my desk. I pick up the note, and when I read it, my blood runs cold in my veins.
Dear Eagle,
You were warned. Make sure you let Black and Ghost know they were too and that they had this coming. See you at your funeral.
XO
I drop the paper the threat is scrawled on as if it’s a coiled-up rattlesnake preparing to strike. And then, as if my hands have a mind of their own, I reach down and pick up the stack of photos. They’re of Ryan and me at lunch laughing, of me in a silk robe getting ready for our pizza date, of us with his kids at dinner, of him making love to me in my bed, and of me alone and asleep in my home.
Someone is watching me.
I look around the room and over my shoulder. It’s a weird feeling to know someone is watching you without your knowledge. It’s a violation. I feel sick to my stomach, and I drop to my knees and lose my bagel and coffee into the wastepaper basket.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and scramble back to my feet. I’m unsteady as the room spins. I grab my phone off the desk and call a number of the only person who I know can help.
“Hello?” Rick answers.
“Rick,” I say quickly, and I can hear the tremor in my voice. I know he does too.
“Honey, what’s wrong?” he asks immediately.
“I need to show you something in my office.”
“I’ll get Black,” he says. “He’s in a meeting right now.”
“No!” I shout. “Don’t do that until I’m sure how to approach it.”
“It’s that bad?” he prompts, his voice low so others can’t hear him.
“It’s worse.”
“I’ll be there in five,” he says. “Lock the door until I get there.”
I hurry to stand and have to steady myself with a hand to my desktop, and then I race over to the door and flip the lock. I press my back to the cool wood and try to still my racing heart and my tumbling stomach. I still feel sick. My forehead is clammy, and I feel hot all over.
There’s a knock at the door.
“Jules, it’s me,” Rick says from the other side of the door, and I flip the lock and let him in.
He shuts the door behind him, and I’m racing back to my trashcan. I throw up again. Poor Rick. This is not what he bargained for.
“Jesus,” he says. “Are you okay?”
