Page 35 of Swerve
At age thirty-one, Will Arrington is the youngest elected member of the Senate. He’d graduated at the top of his Harvard class and makes every decision put before him as if the survival of America depends on it. With his GQ good looks and Upper East Side enunciation, he’s received more requests for appearances on MSNBC than most of the other senators combined. And he takes it all in stride, as if it is his birthright.
Tom pushes aside the unproductive resentment and says, “Will, I wanted to talk with you about the upcoming vote on that expedited DNA analysis.”
Will takes a seat in the chair closest to the desk. He leans forward with his elbows on his knees, his expression one of deep concentration. “I read through the company presentation again. Have to say I still have some reservations.”
Tom tries not to exhale the sigh threatening to rise up out of him. “What reservations?” he asks, keeping his voice as even and light as possible.
“The reliability of the results, actually. Previous methods proved their accuracy. And because DNA evidence can send a man or woman to prison or free them, our decision seems a critical one.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Tom says, leaning back in his chair and making a tent of his fingers. “That’s why I met a third time with experts from DNA Answers. They are cutting edge. And I believe several steps ahead of the next company in line.”
“I wish I could agree.”
The two men meet eyes, and not for the first time, Tom wonders if all is as it appears with young Senator Arrington. If his agenda is as pure as it is presented to be. Somehow, some way, he’s going to have to convince him to vote for this bill. He thinks of his last meeting with the founder of DNA Answers. Of the Cayman account in which he will find a transfer of funds, significant funds, if he can bring Arrington to a yes vote.
He’d like to think he has the time to bring him around the old-fashioned way, some long conversations over a few lunches in the Senate dining room. But the vote is coming up, and he doesn’t have that kind of time. No, he’ll have to settle for another method of bringing Arrington around to his way of thinking.
Something simple, but tried and true.
Blackmail.
Emory
“It takes half your life before you discover life is a do-it-yourself project.”
—Napoleon Hill
I WAKE TO the realization that it’s Day Three since Mia disappeared.
Three days.
I reach for my cell phone on the nightstand by the bed, tap the screen to see if there had been any messages during the night.
No notifications. No texts. No calls.
I hurl the phone to the foot of the bed and stare at the ceiling, frustration churning in my stomach like acid.
How did this happen? How can I be lying here in my bed when Mia is . . . I don’t know how to finish that.
Because I don’t know where she is. How she is. If she’s alive or . . .
I don’t let myself finish that thought. I can’t. It’s too unbearable to even think.
Pounce meows from the open doorway. I pat the side of the bed, and he trots over and sails up beside me. He’d slept in Mia’s room again last night.
I rub his soft back, and he arches against my leg, meowing softly.
“I’m sorry,” I say, picking him up and wrapping my arms around him. Pounce is not a cat who likes to be hugged by anyone but Mia. This morning, though, he seems to know that I need it as much as he does. I press my forehead against his neck, and the sobs that rise up out of me will no longer be denied. I cry until I have no more tears to cry. God love him, Pounce tolerates my grief, and I rub my hand across his tear-drenched neck.
I have never in my life felt so helpless. I have no idea what to do. Who to turn to. How can I do nothing? Go in to work as if my life has not been upended and my baby sister will be home anytime?
I can’t.
I know my residency is at stake, but I cannot return to life as normal.
I decide then that I will call Dr. Maverick as soon as I’ve had a decent cup of coffee and cleared the anguish from my voice.
What else?What elsecan I do?
