Good Girls Lie(111)

A whoosh. A cry.

Main Hall collapses.

And she is gone.



87

THE SENATOR

Senator Ellen Curtis’s guests are in the middle of the third course—a gorgeous duck à l’orange, perfectly cooked—nibbling and laughing as she holds court over her dining room table like the doyenne she is when the chimes of the doorbell cause them all to stop.

Ellen ignores the ringing bell. Renata will get it, there is no reason to worry. It’s probably the caterer, locked out of the back door.

“As I was saying, when the judge came into the room, every head turned—”

“Madame?”

Renata’s quiet voice rings through the room. Ellen, fighting back a furious shout, looks at her housekeeper with a brow raised. “Yes, Renata?”

“There is a man to see you.”

Ellen waves a hand. “Tell him I will be happy to speak with him tomorrow. We’re having brunch.”

“He is a policeman.”

“Oh-ho, Ellie. Those parking tickets finally caught up to you,” Jude Westhaven chortles, tipping back the rest of her glass of Veuve. “Renata, darling—” Renaaaahta, daaaahling “—could you get me a teensy refill?”

“Madame,” Renata says again, not breaking eye contact with Ellen. “He says it’s urgent.”

Ellen rises, gives a reassuring smile to her guests, waves a perfectly manicured hand. “I’ll be back in a mo, have some more champagne, don’t let the duck get cold.”

Her heels click on the parquet floor, snick, snick, snick, snick, as she follows Renata, plodding along in her soft-soled shoes, out to the foyer. Ellen should institute a No Shoe policy, make everyone slip into lovely Chinese slippers like her agent friend, but she is so short, so tiny, the heels barely get her to eye level with the shortest of her male guests. She needs the boost. She hates staring up people’s noses.

Despite the mincing poodle noise she makes as she crosses the hallway, she is grateful she is wearing the stilts when she steps into the foyer. The cop—and this isn’t just a cop, but a detective, in plain clothes—is well over six feet tall. Handsome, too, dark hair slightly too long, soulful brown eyes, sharp jaw. When he sees her, he snaps to attention. All hail Queen Ellen. She is half-disappointed when he doesn’t bow or salute. He nods instead.

“Senator Curtis?”

“Yes? What is it? Something’s happened on the Hill? Not another bomb threat.”

“No, ma’am. I’m sorry to bother you, but I need to ask you a few questions.”

“What is this regarding, Officer?”

“Detective,” he says tightly, and she smiles.

“So sorry. Detective...?”

“Robson. Detective Harris Robson.”

“Detective Robson. What can I answer for you?”

“Can we sit down?”

“I don’t mean to be rude, Detective, but I’m having a brunch for my alumni and several donors. Can you just tell me what you need?”

“It’s regarding your daughter, ma’am.”

“Becca?” Finally, a sliver of dread starts to build. But Becca is at school. The safest of all possible places for her, tucked away in the Blue Ridge, riding roughshod over her teachers and friends alike. They are so similar, Ellen and Becca. Never willing to step away from a fight. “What’s wrong with Becca? Why are you here?”

That’s when she notices the small, quiet woman standing to the right of the detective. Wearing a collar. A minister, or chaplain, of some sort.

The woman steps forward. “Ma’am, we’re so sorry to have to tell you this, but your daughter has died. At school. Dean Westhaven will be calling shortly, but—”

The idea of blood draining from your face is such a cliché until you are faced with a shock, and then it fits. Ellen feels her blood pressure bottom out, puts out a hand, which the detective catches. He propels her to the foyer’s sofa, sits down next to her, two cushions away.

Ellen has come to her senses. “How? How did my daughter die? Was there some sort of accident? This is preposterous.”

Shock. She is in shock. She should be crying, she should be wailing. She is numb, light-headed. Can’t think. Can’t process the words. Becca, dead? Her Becca? Glorious, gorgeous, brilliant Becca? No, there is no way.

A moment of clarity: the press is going to have a field day with this.

The thought is tinged with regret and hate for the way her mind works, for the position she is in, that even when faced with the ultimate horror of the loss of her only daughter, her thought process would move immediately to the impact it will have on her career. But she has no choice. She is a senator, the midterms are coming, there’s an upstart out of Reston who is pushing her way into the race, and the polls are tighter than she’d like. A death in the family will tip them in her favor.

“I must call my chief of staff, we need to prepare a statement.”

“We have time,” the detective says. “The school isn’t going to make any announcements.”

“No, I simply do not believe this,” Ellen whispers. “How?”

“I don’t—”

“How?” The command is unmistakable this time.

“She was found hanging from the school gates.”