The Long Game (The Fixer #2)(47)

As the service ended, my gaze slid to my left—to Bodie. Adam had told me once that Bodie didn’t do funerals, and yet here he was. With me.

And here Ivy wasn’t.

I hadn’t told her I was planning on coming today. I hadn’t told her that I needed her here. I hadn’t asked her to stay, because she would have. And she would have taken one look at me—the way I was watching the congressman, the way I surveyed the presence of each and every mourner—and she would have known that I had more than one reason for coming.

“You ready?” Bodie asked me.

“Not yet,” I said, making my way toward the aisle. A few feet away, I caught a glimpse of a familiar head of strawberry-blond hair. Emilia Rhodes. She peeled away from the crowd and made her way to the far side of the grave. She stood, looking down at the casket. Without thinking, I started walking toward her. When I came up behind her, her head was bowed, and her eyes were closed. At first glance, she looked like she was praying, but when I got closer, I could hear the words her lips formed. They were barely more than a whisper, but her body shook with them.

“I hope it hurt.”

That was her prayer. That was her good-bye to John Thomas Wilcox.

After a moment, she looked up from the grave, her face a mask of grief, looking like any other mourner. She saw me standing beside her. “How many times do I have to tell you that I don’t need your help?” she asked me quietly.

“At least twice more,” I told her.

“I should go,” she said. “And so should you.”

I didn’t take Emilia’s advice. Instead, I slipped into the receiving line behind the other mourners. When I reached the front of the line, Congressman Wilcox took my hand. “Theresa,” he said. “Thank you for coming.”

Did you know that John Thomas was using your files? I curled my fingers around the congressman’s. Did you know that he knew about your affair?

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said.

“You’re the one who found him.” Mrs. Wilcox’s voice was wispy and rough. “You were with him when he . . .” She couldn’t finish the sentence.

“I was with him,” I said. I didn’t tell her that I’d tried to help. I didn’t tell her that I’d pressed my blazer to his chest to staunch the flow of blood. “I’m sorry,” I said again, and my eyes went back to the congressman. I’m sorry that your husband is cheating on you. I’m sorry something in his files might have gotten your son killed.

I turned to leave, but the congressman reached out to stop me. His hand was heavy on my shoulder. My stomach twisted.

“Did John Thomas say anything to you?” the congressman asked. “At the end, did he . . .” John Thomas’s father choked on the words.

Tell. Didn’t. Tell.

An hour before John Thomas’s death, I’d threatened to tell his father that he was spilling secrets. I’d threatened to tell the congressman that John Thomas had told me about his affair.

Tell him I didn’t tell.

“I have to go,” I said, pulling away from the congressman’s grasp. As I turned to leave, the next mourner in line stepped forward. She was in her early forties, with girl-next-door looks and red hair. She was wearing a black dress and matching heels.

I recognized her immediately.

“Congressman, Mrs. Wilcox,” the woman said, her manner professional, more colleague than family friend. “My deepest condolences.”

I’d seen the congressman with this woman. I’d seen him burying his hands in her red hair. But as I forced myself to walk past her, it took everything in me not to turn around, because the woman the congressman was having an affair with—the fund-raiser wasn’t the only place I recognized her from.

Who is this Daniela Nicolae? I could see the red-haired woman asking the camera. How did she get into the country? And why is an anonymous tip the only thing standing between us and a terrorist attack on American soil?

Congressman Wilcox was having an affair with the female pundit I’d seen flaming the Nolan administration on the news.





CHAPTER 42

An internet search told me that the pundit’s name was Stephanie Royal.

“Pancakes.” Bodie set them in front of me.

I gave him a look. We’d gotten home from the funeral ten minutes earlier. He hadn’t asked why I’d been so quiet on the drive.

“I can make two things, kid: pancakes and my hangover cure.” Bodie arched an eyebrow at me. “Are you telling me you’d rather I haul out the blender?”

I picked up a fork and stabbed it into the pancake in answer.

John Thomas accessed his father’s files. I couldn’t keep from going back over everything I’d discovered as I chewed. The congressman has a very personal relationship with the Nolan administration’s most vocal critic. I thought about the media leaks. Before Daniela Nicolae had sent Walker—and every major news outlet—that video, there had already been leaks.

The terrorist’s name.

The fact that the attack had been averted because of a tip from an anonymous source.

The picture of Daniela Nicolae’s very pregnant stomach.

Did Congressman Wilcox have access to information like that? My stomach clenched. Did John Thomas?

The front door opened and closed. Bodie’s hand went to his side. To his gun, I realized a moment later.