The Last Housewife (98)

Of course, that might be a lie. It could have been much earlier. Perhaps when I felt the stirrings of the familiar inferno, or back further, the moment I heard Laurel’s name on Jamie’s podcast, the day I escaped from Don’s house, the school fire, the first evening I picked up The Thousand and One Nights and started reading, heart flooding with recognition. Perhaps it was all the way back to 9:38 on a Tuesday night, ten years old. I could have been hurtling toward this all my life.

Or maybe it was the heat after all. All that passion. A thing I did when I wasn’t in my right mind, when I couldn’t fully consent, even to myself.

Impossible to say.

I guess you get to decide.





Chapter Thirty-Eight


I stood outside the house like so many nights before, preparing myself. Unlike at the other Pater gatherings, which unfolded in the shadows, the Hilltop buzzed with people, an explosion of camera crews and caterers, aides jogging the grounds, guests in tuxedos and floor-length gowns. Anticipation charged the air. Everyone here knew what the governor’s announcement would be. They weren’t here to be surprised; they were here to be part of history.

The Hilltop was lit by torches on the walls, all its doors thrown open, music pouring out. It was a sight to behold from the end of the long driveway. Don’s castle upon the hill.

Jamie rushed back, scrubbing his hands through his hair. “My team’s ready to drop the episode. We have posts ready to go to our email list and across every social platform. All we need is to tell them to press the button.” He smiled weakly. “Then none of them can hurt you.”

He’s not going to kill you, Shay, I heard Laurel say. He used to love you best.

I shook my head. “Of course they won’t.”

***

The security man at the door squinted at Jamie’s ID, then down at his list. I held my breath, praying Jamie’s producers had come through.

“Merciless Media?” The man gave Jamie a doubtful look. “Never heard of it.”

“It’s a podcast company.” Jamie smiled pleasantly. “You know, the future of journalism.”

The security man shrugged. “Whatever you are, you’re on the list.” He pointed at me, giving my jeans and sweater a once-over. “She your plus-one?”

“My assistant,” Jamie said smoothly, and the words worked like magic. The security guard immediately dismissed me. “Yeah, all right,” he said. “Next.”

The party was concentrated in an enormous marble-floored room with high windows, a space that reminded me of a Regency ballroom. Except it was lined with mounted TV cameras, all facing a stage they’d set up for the governor’s announcement. I could tell immediately where the governor was because a crowd thronged around him. When the bodies shifted, I caught a glimpse of him: smooth-skinned, hair coiffed like a helmet, broad shoulders encased in an immaculate tuxedo. Even more handsome than he looked on TV.

“Over there,” Jamie whispered. “That’s the head of the DNC, talking to the New York City mayor.”

I looked at all the dressed-up people, taking a moment to let the enormity of what Don had accomplished sink in. All of upper-crust New York was here. In the crowd, I spotted the familiar face of the Lieutenant, standing next to a woman I recognized as his wife. I whipped my head down.

“What’s wrong?” Jamie hissed.

“Michael Corbin.” I nodded in his direction.

Jamie’s eyes gleamed. “I hope they’re all here. Every last one of them, with their families and friends.”

I scanned the crowd. No Laurel or Don. But there, in the corner near the string quartet, was Reginald Carruthers, in a tuxedo with tails. A woman about his age had her arm twined through his—maybe his wife.

Jamie gripped my shoulders. “Are you ready? You find Laurel, and I’ll call my team?”

I looked down. One of Jamie’s knee was shaking. “Are you ready?”

He swallowed. “I’m scared, to be honest. But I don’t know what else to do. My team will send the evidence to the feds once the episode is out, and I’ll call them myself, tell them there’s people in immediate danger. Find her fast, okay? Fast, then out.”

“Okay.”

He leaned forward and caught my face, kissing me on the forehead. “If she doesn’t want to come,” he murmured, “leave her.” Then he turned, and I watched him knife through the crowd.

With Jamie gone, I moved slowly, keeping a careful eye on the people around me, searching for pale hair and paler skin. It occurred to me: if Laurel wasn’t at the party, she might still be getting ready, planning some big entrance. She might be alone somewhere in the mansion.

With one last glance at the Lieutenant and Marquis, I slipped out of the ballroom and into the hallway I recognized, the one that led to the basement. I needed to go in the opposite direction—upstairs, where the bedrooms would be. Did Laurel have her own, or did she share with Don? Was it true they were practically married?

The promise of her drew me forward. Once more, I was Sleeping Beauty, moving by instinct, hand outstretched toward the spindle. I wondered how long it would take to find her, when every turn pushed me farther into the maze of this sprawling place, and every new wall jolted me with pieces of art so perfectly in Don’s taste they felt haunted, like he was inside them, watching. I came to a fork in the hall and chose left instead of right. Turned, and froze.