The Mathyssens had more money than they knew what to do with. This much was plain from the moment their McMansion came into view over the rise of the hill. Carol and her husband had poured much of their extravagant wealth into sprinkling their home's architecture with a motley collection of unnecessary dormers and pillars of varying girths, throwing together a bizarre melange of architectural styles for a confrontational effect on the visitor's eye.
The building was a cry for help: its owners needed a hobby, stat. Political activism had come along at the perfect time.
A flood of warm light and high, false voices poured from the mansion's entrance. Parker examined her silhouette in the car window, smoothing the fabric over her hips and backside. She'd picked up a sage green cocktail dress in a boutique downtown. It complemented Jarod's suit. It did not complement the cane.
Jarod's reflection stood behind hers in watchful silence, waiting to head up to the front doors. His face was barely discernable in the distorted reflection. Was it the warping of the glass, or were his eyes alarmingly, immeasurably sad?
"You look beautiful," he said. It was what one said on such an occasion. Parker cast him a sharp look over her shoulder, but the mournful expression had fled.
He looked beautiful, too, but he didn't need to know that.
"Hm," she said. She grabbed her cane, hating the thing more than ever. "Thank you."
Jarod folded his arm around the crook of her elbow, so quick and sure and smooth that she barely registered the movement before his warm fingers had intertwined with hers and it was too late to back out. They made for the entrance like moths drawn to a porch light. The cane didn't touch the ground; she didn't need it with Jarod at her arm. A volunteer at the door checked off the name of one "Jarod Edstrom" at the door, plus one.
The chandelier in the entrance hall was too big for the space, giving the impression of a poorly hidden booby trap hanging over the threshold. Jarod swept Miss Parker straight into the adjoining room, an enormous hall cleared of all its usual furniture and filled instead with dozens of identical round tables. There were a few knots of semi-formal guests in serious, deliberate conversation around the outskirts of the room, but event staff dominated the space, swarming the tables with little name cards and folded napkins and floating candles in glass bowls. Parker thought she saw a familiar silvery head vanish into a side hallway — Sydney had arrived two hours early to help set up.
She'd never seen so many flags indoors before.
"Jarod!"
The voice boomed across the hall, too happy and loud to be talking to fewer than a dozen people at once. It came from a short woman with dark hair cut bluntly at her chin. She had big teeth and an easy smile. "We expected you a half-hour ago, come on back!"
Jarod bent close to Parker's ear. She could feel his breath on her cheek.
"This is Nikki."
"I know," she hissed back. "I got the same folder you did."
Nikki Angus, would-be governor of the state of Washington, ushered the pair through a set of double doors, and the mystery of the near-deserted venue was immediately solved. All the guests had gathered outside on the expansive patio area off the back of the house. Paper lanterns and pendant lights hung low over the scene, low enough that people taller than six feet reflexively tucked their chins into their chests when they passed too close to one. A few of the younger couples were daring each other to jump into the pool, dresses and waistcoats and all. Two women, not quite drunk enough to be barefoot but barefoot anyway, chased fireflies out on the back lawn, on the periphery of the party's immediate glow. Over everything, the live band played a watered-down Jimi Hendrix cover. The dance floor was underpopulated, the few dancing couples making loud, cajoling entreaties to their wallflower friends as they spun past.
"We're all out here," said Nikki, unnecessarily. She and Jarod exchanged European-style cheek kisses. "Lucky for you, Jarod, that dinner and speeches aren't 'til later, or I might be ticked at you. What am I supposed to do with the press without my new golden ticket?" Her attention flicked to Parker. "But I'm being rude. I'm Nikki, thanks so much for coming. Are you—?"
Jarod looped an arm around Parker's waist and gave her a look of such tender, lovesick affection, it was like stepping into a sauna. For a moment, it was hard to remember that the act was for Angus's benefit.
"Yes," he said. "This is Marcelle."
Parker stiffened. Jarod's grip on her hip tightened slightly, a subtle warning.
"Marcelle!" Nikki crowed. "We've heard so much about you. It's really very sweet, he talks about you all the time. I'm so glad you could make it."
"Happy to be here," said Parker through gritted teeth. "I'm… very excited for your candidacy."
Marcelle.
Nikki jerked a thumb over her shoulder at the sparse population of dancers. "You know, you could make up for your lateness by helping me out with the dance floor. Most of the guests seem to have coat hangers crammed up their backsides and won't dance. Every little bit would help. I'd consider it a personal favour. I'll even join you in a mo', once Eric finishes up inside."
"I don't know about that," said Jarod. He hadn't stopped smiling since Nikki had called them over, and he turned his toothy grin on Parker now. "Marcie may need to sit this one out. It's been a long day on your feet, hasn't it? Nikki, I'm sure you remember me telling you, she's recovering from a running injury. What do you think, sweetheart?"
The Pretend version of Jarod was a little eerie. A slightly different register, the barest hint of a west coast accent, and that open, generous expression, it was like Jarod had stepped out for the moment and left an uncanny lookalike behind to hold his spot. A stranger. She could only speak to the real Jarod once they regained a little privacy.
He was giving her an out, she knew. A flimsy out. Admit this was a bad idea and sit on the sidelines while I take care of things, it said. She didn't plan on it. She could give as good as she got — and besides, she needed time alone with him to discuss the minor detail of Marcelle.
"Oh, no, I'm fine." She dropped her cane on a handy window sill. "Let's get this party hopping, shall we?"
She took Jarod's hand and tugged him towards the dance floor. A flicker of surprise darted across his face, quickly eclipsed by his usual composure. As soon as they were out of Nikki's earshot, his voice dropped low.
"That wasn't a challenge, you know. We don't have to dance," he muttered, even as his hand curled around her left side to settle on her shoulder blade, holding her right hand in his left. "Believe it or not, I'm only trying to get the records and get out. I'm not deliberately trying to ruin your night."
He was holding his right arm higher and tighter than you were meant to, coming up firm right under her shoulder just shy of discomfort, instead of gently bracing her upper back. Was this finally a skill that Jarod hadn't instantaneously mastered?
"I might believe that if it weren't for your introduction back there," she said, casting her voice low enough that nearby couples wouldn't hear. "Bastard. Marcelle, really? Are you trying to get me made?"
It was a miracle this hadn't happened earlier, really. He'd known her first name since they were kids, but had never weaponized that knowledge, no matter how bad things had been between them. She'd been waiting for this shoe to drop ever since she'd started chasing Jarod, and here it was, finally. Why now, of all times? Some indirect revenge for his capture?
Jarod smiled, unperturbed. "What should I have called you? 'Miss'?"
"Pretty much anything else. You can't come up with an alias on the fly? Or can you only invent surnames?"
Jarod shrugged one shoulder. "I am better at surnames, you may have a point. As far as the campaign staff knows, yours is 'Jamison', by the way."
"Jamison? You—" Was it a coincidence? "That was my mother's maiden name."
"I know."
They were gliding across the paving stones in a simple waltz, making effortless loops around the other dancers. The band had transitioned into a Bing Crosby cover, one of his lesser-known non-Christmas-related tracks. Unconsciously, Parker angled her body forward just enough to lean her weight on Jarod's arm whenever her left foot came down. She had completely forgotten about the cane.
(It didn't occur to her until much later that Jarod may have positioned his arm like that — firm and high and just shy of discomfort — on purpose.)
More couples were slowly trickling in, joining in on the dance, some deliberately modelling their easy waltzes on the dark-haired couple in grey and sage green. One couple breezed by particularly close, close enough for the woman to make a passing comment.
"Jarod, you showed up!" she said, leaning away from her dance partner with a boisterous laugh. She was blonde with tear-shaped earrings and a small, red mouth. "Did you get a chance to see the wainscoting in the dining room? We just had it put in!"
"It's beautiful, Carol," said Jarod graciously. After a few further inane comments, he steered them purposefully away from Carol and the presumed Mr. Mathyssen, who had gone without formal introduction. Jarod lowered his voice. "What on Earth is wainscoting?"
Parker ignored the question. "It's tomorrow, you know."
Jarod frowned at the non sequitur. "What?"
"It's tomorrow. You said you would tell me what Angus is hiding 'tomorrow'. So tell me."
"I haven't retrieved the records yet, I don't—"
"No, stop," she said with an impatient shake of the head. "Stop trying to weasel out of it. Just tell me."
He set his jaw at a stubborn angle. "I told you, I don't want the Centre acting on rumours."
It was like pulling teeth.
"I won't tell them rumours. When would I have the opportunity? We're not leaving here without the records, so I'll know in a few hours anyway. Tell me."
Jarod didn't reply right away. He couldn't avoid her eye, not dancing face-to-face as they were, so instead, he held her gaze for an uncomfortably long stretch as they continued across the dance floor. One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three.
"It's an abortion. She had an abortion," he muttered.
One-two-three, one-two-three.
"… Oh." It was a little disappointing, if she was being honest. Not up to her standards of scandalous secrets at all. "That's it? Isn't she running as a Democrat? In Washington? I know it might alienate a couple of voters, but. I mean, it's not as if she's running on a pro-life platform."
"No, you're right. It probably won't sway enough voters to make the difference. The problem is, her husband doesn't know."
He fell silent as their course brought them within earshot of Carol and her husband again, then started up again after they'd passed by.
"That much I figured out from day one. The way she talked about reproductive rights, the way she looked at her husband. The guilt there. Carol let me in on the details — Nikki and Eric saw a fertility doctor to conceive a couple years ago. Carol said that Eric's — how did she phrase it? His swimmers were such underdogs that they had to implant a donor's sample for the treatment. She got pregnant on the first try, but lost it in a late-term miscarriage. She had a really hard time with it, even separated from her husband for a few months.
"Then, by some miracle, Nikki and Eric conceived by accident last year, the usual way. Carol says that Nikki didn't want to risk going through the trauma of miscarriage again, and had it terminated as soon as she found out. Didn't tell Eric anything. If Eric found out, it would be too much for him to accept. They had a chance at a baby that was all theirs, but she didn't want to take on the potential grief."
Parker listened in silence, turning the details over in her mind. It still didn't really make sense. These weren't the type of secrets the Centre usually dealt in. These were personal details, not political. But then, the personal could become the political if wielded the right way.
"So we're not blackmailing her with the end of her career."
Jarod nodded soberly. "We're blackmailing her with the end of her marriage."
He let go of her hand and stepped back. She stumbled.
"What are you doing?" she said, abruptly disoriented. Her side felt cold and neglected where his arm had been.
"The song is over." He looked back towards the house, where a sliver of a clockface was visible through the window. Parker took advantage of his distraction to compose herself and regain her footing, readjusting herself to her unreliable stance. He turned back. "We have half an hour before dinner starts, a good amount of time for me to get upstairs and back down to the dining hall unnoticed. You can field any questions about my absence from here."
Parker shook her head. "I'm coming with you."
"This again?"
"Think about it, Jarod," she snapped. She retrieved her cane from the window sill where she'd dropped it. "If I stay here, I'm a constant visual reminder to everyone else that you're absent. That's all anybody here knows about me, that I came with you. If I'm also gone, that's one less reminder that you've mysteriously slipped away. Besides, a couple going off together alone is much less suspicious than one person sneaking around the house by himself."
"How's that?"
Parker rolled her eyes. "Don't be dense. We can say it was a little afternoon delight in one of the upstairs bedrooms."
"Oh."
She wished she had a camera to preserve the expression that then took over his face.
Nobody commented when the two of them ducked back into the dining hall. Jarod didn't even stop to fill Sydney in, as they passed him in the hallway with a nod and a wink. Nobody stood guard at the bottom of the stairs, ready to stop them from climbing to the second floor. In fact, they didn't encounter anyone at all until they reached the third-floor landing.
"Do you even know where you're going?" Parker asked. She kept her voice low, in case their run of good luck was about to come to an end. They were making their way down the third-floor hallway, checking doors as they went. Where the ground floor was infected with the Mathyssens' feverish passion for misguided renovation, the upper floors revealed more evidence of taste, perhaps where the original design of the house had gone relatively unaltered. Lots of dark mahogany.
"Yes," said Jarod curtly.
"Could have fooled me." She opened the next door on the right to reveal a closet, apparently the chosen storage spot for winter clothes.
"I got in touch with their go-to contractors. Carol had a safe installed in her study eighteen months—"
"Shh, shut up." Had she heard something? It sounded like it had come from down the hall. She froze and strained her ears to listen.
"What is it?"
There it was again, the groan of floorboards under shifting weight. Then, worse, the unmistakable sound of a handle turning under a hand.
"Quick!" she hissed, and tugged Jarod by his suit lapels into the closet they'd just passed, closing the door quietly behind her. The moment the closet door closed, another door opened, and heavy feet carried some unseen individual past their hiding spot.
She was acutely aware of how loud her breathing was. Jarod's, too. The closet was smaller than it had looked at first glance, especially with all the bulky winter jackets taking up space. She had to tuck her arms against her chest to avoid leaning against Jarod. They stood there in the dark, breathing each other's air, for what felt like hours. Each time Parker thought they were out of the woods, there! Another soft creak. Whoever it was, they were still out there. In her mind's eye, the unseen person lumbered along the hallway leading to Carol's study, blocking access to the reports; or perhaps they'd created a one-man traffic jam on the route back to the dining hall. Neither was good news.
"Dinner is scheduled to start in fifteen minutes," said Jarod, barely moving his lips. "If they haven't noticed our absence already, they'll definitely notice it then."
Parker uttered a whispered curse.
"Do you think they're close enough that they'd see the closet door open?"
Jarod was silent for a long moment. Together, they listened to the disembodied creaks and rustles outside.
"No," he said finally. "No, it sounds like they're inside the bedroom at the top of the stairs. The bedroom door, though… I didn't hear the bedroom door close. They would see us if we passed going back downstairs. And even if you or I could sneak past him, there's nothing to stop them from going into Carol's study and catching us with our hands in the cookie jar."
Parker stared at the door as if willing it to become transparent. She'd rather stick by Jarod's side, if possible. He'd been way too cagey about this job from the start, and she'd feel much better if she watched the reports pass safely from the study, to Jarod, to her clutch bag without any opportunity for tampering. Even more than she wanted to keep an eye on Jarod, however, she really didn't want to get caught.
"Meet me downstairs when you have the evidence," she said, and pushed through the door without leaving time for Jarod to argue.
True to Jarod's estimation, she found a heavyset man in a navy suit and untied bow tie going through a linen cupboard in the bedroom at the top of the stairs. As she stepped into view, the man looked around, his lips pulled into a rictus of unmistakable guilt. His broad mouth and kind eyes sparked a neuron — Eric, Nikki Angus's husband.
"Eric!" she said, adopting the same cheerful boisterousness that was so common in the event's attendees. She no longer troubled to keep her voice down. "There you are. Nikki is looking everywhere for you."
"Oh." Eric's face was a miserable apology. "If this is about dancing, I really can't—"
"No, no, nothing like that. Did you lose track of time, maybe? It's almost dinner."
"Ah. Crap. I… well, you won't judge me, will you? I'm trying to find something to help. I may have, well." He gestured helplessly down the hall. Parker tensed, ready to stop him if he headed toward Jarod's hiding place. "I may have… clogged the toilet. It's a real mess, the plunger didn't do anything to it."
Parker waved her hand, projecting an industrious lack of concern. She deserved an Oscar for not wrinkling her nose in disgust.
"Happens to the best of us. The plumbing in old houses like these, it must act up all the time. The one thing they didn't remodel, hey? Doesn't that just figure?" She wasn't sure what kind of folksy character she was accessing, but it seemed to be working, so she wasn't about to question it. Down the hallway, a door closed with a barely audible snick. "We need you downstairs, though, no time for plumbing emergencies. Tell you what, I'll send one of the volunteers up to sort it out."
Eric shook his head, horrified.
"I couldn't ask someone else to clean it up. I'd be so embarrassed."
"Then we won't tell them it was you! No need for embarrassment. That's what they're here for. Come on."
It was a hard sell for a gentleman as image-conscious as Eric Angus, but eventually, she coaxed him to the stairs.
"Thanks very much, Miss…?"
"Pa — ah, Jamison."
Perhaps she imagined it, but she thought she heard the telltale creak of a safe door before they headed downstairs.
The event coordinators had worked fast. At a table near the back of the dining hall was a seating card labelled Jarod Edstrom and there, to the right, another seating card with Marcelle Jamison in a negligibly different hue of blue ink.
Parker watched Nikki Angus's face instead of listening to each variation upon the standard campaign fundraiser speech. She was a politician's politician, Parker had gathered as much at first glance. The sort of candidate that might be labelled "establishment". Angus had a personality in there somewhere, buried deep under all that public image. She asked for a lot, and she made people around her excited that she dared to ask at all. She'd played the game well, weathering personal drama and a system stacked against her. And she was about to fall so far — either by bowing out of the race for governor without explanation, or by losing her beloved, toilet-clogging husband — based all on the whims of some Delaware-based think tank and their as-yet unidentified client.
A hand on Parker's shoulder broke her out of her reverie — Jarod, sliding into his assigned seat. He shovelled a hasty bite of spanakopita into his mouth and chewed with gusto. Across the hall, Sydney's eyes followed Jarod to their table, and he made his serpentine way through the crowd toward them.
"Well?" whispered Parker. "I assume you got it."
Jarod nodded and swallowed. "Yeah. We're almost there. I'm going to have a word with Nikki before we leave."
"Why?" said Sydney. He'd arrived in time to catch Jarod's last few words. As he spoke, he bent next to Jarod's chair, pretending to tie his shoes. Hopefully, nobody looked too close — he didn't have any shoelaces. "Jarod, I know you'll be tempted to warn her, but you can't. It won't do any good, it will only complicate things. One way or the other, the Centre will get her out of the race."
"I won't," said Jarod through another bite of spanakopita. "I'm laying the groundwork for the next step. Did you two not get info on stage three? The Centre wants the personal touch when it comes time to blackmail Angus. They want me to do it." He looked mournfully at his empty plate. "I'm famished. Did I miss the boat on dinner and drinks, Sydney?"
Sydney balked at the quick shift in topic. "Ah, no. No, hang on a moment, I'll grab something from the kitchen."
"Thank you. Miss Jamison, will you have another drink?"
"Sure, fine," said Parker impatiently. Sydney headed for the kitchens, looking mildly irritated. "What is this stage three, can't you do that over the phone? I thought we were headed back east in the morning."
"Yes, I'll do most of it over the phone."
"So?"
"So, as I said, I'm laying the groundwork." He sighed theatrically. "There are a lot of things I miss about freedom. One is not having to explain every move I make."
Parker scowled. "Yeah, accountability sucks. Get used to it."
He was acting a little odd, she decided. If even she was feeling the weight in guilt of Angus's imminent downfall, surely he was feeling it too. Surely he would be wallowing in that same remorse or, more likely, wielding self-righteousness like a spiked flail, bruising everyone in his orbit. This half-ironic prickliness struck her as an act.
From the next table over, a guest in a pink cocktail dress leaned over and shushed them.
"Sorry," Jarod whispered back. He perked up. "Oh! There's Sydney with the drinks."
He jumped to his feet.
"You don't have to—" But suddenly, she was talking to herself. "And, he's gone."
Jarod hurried over to meet Sydney halfway, helping him out with two champagne flutes and a plate of food. They exchanged a few indistinct words, and Sydney looked over at Miss Parker with an expression of inexplicable concern. He then disappeared in the direction of the entrance hall.
Jarod returned bearing the food and drinks and slid a champagne glass in front of his handler. She picked it up with a nod of acknowledgement and raised it in his general direction.
"To the success of our first assignment," she said, though she knew she was pushing at a bruise. Her mouth shrugged. "Could have been a lot worse." She took a sip.
Jarod's glass paused halfway to his mouth, just long enough that Parker noted the hesitation.
"Cheers to that," he returned, and drank in kind.
On stage, Eric finished talking and yielded the floor to his wife. Another speech followed, returning to the well-trod ground of back-patting and promises of change.
When Nikki stepped back from her podium for the nth time that night, the room erupted in applause. Parker joined in, though she hadn't been listening to a word of the preceding speech. It was one of those applauses where the audience makes a point out of extending the whole operation to distinguish it from other applauses of merely average length. A couple of people attempted a standing ovation, noticed that the rest of the crowd wasn't following their example, and sat back down again.
The clapping and whistling grew in Parker's ears, drowning out all but the most basic thought. Why did they keep the lights so bright in here? She leaned her forearms against the table in front of her. Her leg throbbed plaintively and a tremendous fatigue hit her like a brick to the temple.
"Miss Parker?" said Jarod, quiet enough that the incongruous name wouldn't give them away. "Are you okay? You look pale."
"I'm exhausted," she admitted. Before her, the image of Jarod blurred. "Long day, I guess."
She tried to brace her weight on the vacant chair to her right, but her aim was off and her hand missed its target. Her stomach swooped as she pitched to the side, then jerked to a stop, her forehead a scant inch from the edge of the table. At first, it wasn't clear what had stopped her descent; then she noticed the hand bracing her waist.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Jarod murmured. She couldn't see him, but his body seemed to be everywhere around her. "It looks a little worse than the effects of a long day. We need to get you back to the hotel."
A flurry of movement in her peripheral vision — Jarod, miming something to Sydney across the hall. Parker's arm, gently hooked around the back of Jarod's shoulders as she protested feebly. Her left leg shaking under her as she stumbled across the entrance hall. Jarod's soft apologies to the volunteers manning the front door.
"Everything's okay, she's just had a long day," he whispered as they passed.
Parker blinked a little too long and then she was tumbling backwards into the back seat of a car. She didn't recognize the upholstery. It wasn't the car they'd arrived in.
"You know the place? There's an extra fifty in it for you if you get her to the third floor."
It sounded like Jarod's voice, but it wasn't making much sense. Third floor? Back up to the bathroom with the plugged toilet? She'd rather not.
"I don't want to," she moaned. She couldn't tell if she was speaking too loudly, or too quietly, or indeed whether she was speaking aloud at all. Then Jarod was there, crouched down at her eye level. Or at least, she was pretty sure it was Jarod. The silhouette was Jarod-shaped. The urge to reach out and touch him, just to make sure, was difficult to fight down. Luckily for her pride, her limbs couldn't coordinate well enough to answer the urge.
"I'll see you tomorrow morning," he said.
"M'supposed to keep my eye on you."
He laughed quietly. "Sydney will have to do your job for you this time. We're staying a little longer so I can set things in motion with Angus."
She blinked again, and she was flying down the highway with her cheek hot against the cool, unfamiliar leather, the overhead street lights creating a slow strobing effect across her face. Her head had cleared, but she didn't want to sit up, still too tired to move. Was she alone? She felt alone.
"Hullo?" she said, or something like it.
"Morning, Sleeping Beauty," said a voice from the driver's seat. A woman, likely a fellow smoker, past or current. "You really tied one on, huh?"
"No," said Parker, because she hadn't. She'd had two glasses of champagne, that was it. Not even two. One glass and a sip of a second.
"Right," said the driver. A taxi driver, Parker thought. So this was a taxi. That, or a low-budget limo. It smelled like nicotine and air fresheners. The former evoked nostalgia, the latter, nausea. The driver chuckled. "Not to worry, hon. We're almost to your hotel. See?"
The hotel loomed in the front windshield, the neon lights making Parker squint.
"I didn't," Parker muttered, stubborn and petulant in her fatigue. I didn't tie one on. I didn't tie anything. She suspected the driver didn't believe her.
The car pulled up to the hotel's porte-cochère, rumbling along the pavement. The driver peered at her in the rearview mirror.
"You look better than you did when I picked you up. You think you can get up to your room on your own? I can help you if you like. Your boyfriend gave me extra for it, so. Happy to."
The driver didn't put up an argument when Parker insisted that she'd find her way up to her room by herself. The room key was in her clutch, which had somehow found its way into the cab along with her. Nobody looked twice when she staggered across the lobby and into the elevator. And no wonder, she supposed. Drunken guests were likely the norm.
Parker grasped one shining moment of lucidity before her pillow pulled her into the soft embrace of sleep, time enough for one sole coherent thought. This was, indeed, the first coherent thought she'd had since Jarod had returned with the platters from the kitchen, and it was this:
What the hell was in that drink?
