Page 26 of Swerve
The two words are scripted across a heavy brass estate plaque mounted to a single stacked-stone column.
Her driver makes the turn onto the narrow asphalt drive, hits the remote for the iron gate. They wait for it to swing open, and, as always, she takes the moment to admire the setting before her.
Here, on this northern fringe of Virginia countryside, barely an hour beyond the power corridors of downtown Washington, DC, the Hotel California had once provided occasional escape to some of the country’s most well-known political families. She had found guest books in the hotel vault dating back to the early 1900s with names like Roosevelt and Wilson gracing the pages.
It was a source of pride to know that she was the modern-day proprietor of such a place. Of course, when she’d first found the hotel in the real estate for sale listings of properties close enough to the city, it had looked nothing like it now looks. It had been a sad, drooping shadow of its former self.
And she,she, had been the one to spot the diamond in the rough, wave the magic wand and transform it.
Little had she known the extent of the bounty inside the treasure chest of the Hotel California.
No, that discovery hadn’t made itself known until the contractor had discovered the secret elevator shaft.
Ahead, at the end of the long drive, just barely visible from the gate entrance, the hotel stands now like a reinstated beauty queen, the deep lines of fatigue blasted from her surface by one of the country’s best architects with the same determined skill as a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon. Her brick walls had been cleaned with bleach and water, mildew and mold fleeing like no longer welcome guests from its surface.
The manicured lawn and accentuating boxwoods resemble the English country houses they’d originally been patterned after. Two enormous oak trees flank each side of the main building. The arborists told her it was extremely unusual that neither tree had ever been damaged by lightning, every single limb still strong and thriving.
She liked to think of the trees as protectors of the hotel, warding off encroaching dangers like storms and wind and ice. Much the same as she was the protector of the very precious guests and residents of the hotel.
The car glides down the long driveway, her heart beating a little faster as they near the main entrance.
The city holds some allure for her, its bright lights and pounding pulse appealing in their own right. But it is here, in this place she has resurrected from its own ashes, that she thrives. Recognizes her purpose in life. Knows the kind of control and power that make her wish for an extension on her probable number of years on this earth.
She thinks of the new residents awaiting her approval, wonders if their detox is working at its most effective or if they will require her more convincing measures.
This part is always exciting for her. Assessing whether the original trap creates a willing partnership or not.
It is the rare captive who does not respond to this first phase.
She has learned though that most people think they are strong. They’ve been convinced of this by the paper-thin walls of their lives, which they view as their security, their right to a safe existence. It takes so little, really, to throw them into chaos, confuse them as to what is up and what is down.
She realizes this could be considered cruelty, but it’s really nothing more than a necessary part of the process. Human beings make decisions based on what they think is true, not what actually is. She has to show them what actually is so that they understand the importance of choosing correctly.
At the hotel’s front entrance, her driver stops the car, sliding out to come around and open her door. “Welcome back, madam,” he says.
“Thank you,” she says, looking at the front door. “Although somehow, it doesn’t feel as if I ever really leave.”
Knox
“In my life, I have made the occasional catastrophic choice, and it’s just a case of moving on and learning from it.”
—James Nesbitt
THE CHIEF IS a woman.
But anyone foolish enough to mistake her gender as license for assuming softness almost certainly lives to regret it.
At least anyone associated with the Metropolitan Police Department.
Knox has never considered himself foolish, and he’s the last person to underestimate Willa Parker. Or the reason she has called him to her office this afternoon.
He sits across from her desk, right ankle over left knee, aware from her expression that he has been called to the principal’s office.
“A senator’s wife?” she says in a former smoker’s voice. “Seriously, Helmer?”
He chooses silence as the best option, keeps his expression blank, unwilling to give her any cards to play.
“You were sent to that party as a representative of this department. I chose you as one of only three detectives deserving of the recognition.”She leans back in her chair, arms folded, giving him a long look. “Are you aware of your propensity for shooting yourself in the foot?”
