The Perfect Mother(76)

“They can’t do anything. They called me. It’s public property.” He pauses. “You know how this works, Nell. The cameras have every right to be there.”

“Yeah, well.” She shrugs. “You never know. There could be a humanitarian crisis somewhere. A stolen election. Maybe a government bombing its own citizens that Americans will want to read about instead of me. We can hope, right?”

Ian leans forward, a bemused expression on his face. “I gotta tell you, and I mean this sincerely—the British accent? Genius. I seriously had no idea.” His smile fades when she doesn’t respond. “I’m really sorry to hear about your friend’s baby. That must be rough.”

Nell nods.

“You were there the night it happened, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Were you one of the women who got into her house that night? Before the police secured it?”

Nell nods again.

“Yikes.” Ian closes the door. “So, what do you think happened?” He winks. “Anything you want to share? Just between us?”

“Stop with the winking, Ian. Don’t even try it.”

He sighs and leans against the door. “Okay, Nell, listen. I hate to be the guy to say this, but we think you should take some time off.”

“Time off?”

“The strain of all of this, it’s got to be getting to you.”

“I’m fine. I’ve survived this before, and I’ll survive it again.”

“Yeah.” He nods. “The thing is, Nell, you haven’t really been at your best since your return.”

“My best? Ian, give me a break. It’s been less than a week.”

“That’s what I’m doing. Offering you a break. Maybe we asked too much of you, coming back—”

“Ian, I—”

“We’ll pay you. Consider it a long-term leave of absence. Extended maternity leave, if you will. For a few months or so. A little more if it’ll help.”

Nell laughs. “Really? Extended maternity leave? Is this a new company-wide policy? The ladies will be thrilled.” Ian smirks, and she tries to dial back her anger. “When would you like my maternity leave to start?”

“Today.”

“Today? Ian, the security training is tomorrow. I’ve been preparing for it. I came back to work early to oversee it.”

“We’ve talked to Eric, and he’s going to take over your responsibilities.” Ian looks out the window, avoiding her gaze. “He’s not going to do the job you would, but we’re confident he’ll manage, including taking your place tomorrow. Go get the rest you need. Spend some time with Chloe.”

“Her name’s Beatrice. Look, I know this is inconvenient, but I’ve done nothing wrong. They found me. Fine. But what happened was fifteen years—”

“Nell,” Ian says, meeting her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Talk to Adrienne.”

He bites his lip. “Why?”

“Because she knows. She’s known all along. And she doesn’t care. You can’t make me leave.”

“Adrienne’s the one who sent me down here. She feels awful about it. We all do. But we can’t afford this publicity. It’s too much of a distraction.”

Nell steels herself. “From what? Writing about it? From deciding which photo to use of me on next week’s Gossip! cover? Is that what this is about? I could put on a bikini and go get a flag, if that would help.”

He keeps his gaze steady on hers. “Let’s keep this simple. Please pack your stuff. We can revisit this in a few weeks. See where things stand.”

She closes her eyes and sees it: placing her belongings into a box at the State Department. People averting their eyes as she walked toward the elevator. Going outside into the crowd of cameras. The years following, unable to get work, turned down for every job, the expression on the faces of every potential employer. He gave up a chance at the presidency for her?

She opens her eyes and looks at Ian. “Nope.”

“Nope?”

“Nope. I’m not leaving. You can’t fire me.”

“Nobody’s firing anybody—”

“I’m not leaving, Ian. I’ll hire an attorney if I have to. But I’m not leaving.”

“But, Nell. I’m . . . it’s—”

“Excuse me for being rude, Ian, but I have to ask you to leave. Consider it a short-term leave of absence from my office.” She turns back to her computer. “I have a training to finish preparing for tomorrow.”

Ian opens her door, walking silently back into the hall. Nell stands to close it behind him, noticing the young man dawdling a few feet away, trying to eavesdrop on their conversation, probably hoping to discreetly snap a photo for his stupid Facebook page.

She returns to her desk, reading numbly through the training manual, trying to block it out. Ian. The kid in the hall. The photographers outside. The article she read before Ian came in.

The same morning former Secretary of State Lachlan Raine is nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize, Ellen Aberdeen is linked to the disappearance of Baby Midas. In fact, she’s been identified as the intoxicated mother drunkenly dancing at the Jolly Llama on July 4, the night of the abduction.