The Last Invitation
Darby Kane
Dedication
For every woman who has been ignored, belittled, dismissed, forgotten, overlooked, or abused. This one’s for you.
Epigraph
Most people say they want justice. But they don’t really want justice. They want revenge. They want to see the pain spread around equally.
—David Gerrold
Chapter One
The Foundation
Seven women. One vote.
The Sophie Foundation. To the public, a charitable organization set up by a select group of powerful women to fund special projects relating to women’s health and welfare. Very general-sounding in its purpose, and not by accident. Behind the scenes, in private, a smaller group within the Foundation carried out a very different agenda.
“Let’s get started.” The meeting had been called to order without the need to yell or ask more than once.
Attendees immediately complied. Folders opened. Notepads appeared. They didn’t leave an electronic footprint and burned all documents after the meeting. They never wavered from this rule.
“The first item relates to the individual referred to in the documents as Offender C.”
They’d wait to vote until everyone had an opportunity to speak and all arguments had been heard and settled. No one dared to come unprepared. The thought was unimaginable. They performed invaluable work. Risky and serious work.
“In light of the facts and history, and the probability of further acts of violence, I’m requesting our most significant penalty.” A few members glanced up at the ringing command of the leader’s voice. “Death.”
Chapter Two
Gabby
Gabby Fielding hated talking with her ex-husband. She’d divorced him for a reason. A terrible, still-couldn’t-process-it reason that left her with no choice but to get out of the marriage she’d once believed, na?vely so, would last forever.
Back then she’d also considered him her best friend, a man she could trust, which now seemed trite. Today, she thought of him as a gigantic asshole, both relentless in his need to “win” and indifferent to the people around him. A blowhard with an overinflated ego backed up by an impressive bank account he’d built from almost nothing . . . and that “almost” ended up ruining everything.
This morning, yet another fight about their daughter, Kennedy, loomed. She was fourteen and had just left to start her second year away at boarding school in upstate New York, as he’d insisted. He’d argued about her needing a “push” then conflated the high yearly tuition with the guarantee of lifetime success, all while covertly convincing Kennedy she wanted to go. Gabby knew he’d picked the school because she hated the idea of Kennedy being away from home.
The custody arrangement Gabby regretted signing before she’d finished writing her name on the damn paperwork less than three years ago required them to meet by September 1 to discuss and agree on a winter holiday and vacation schedule for Kennedy. The supposed legal genius Gabby paid a fortune to represent her in the divorce insisted this was a good idea. Gabby fought it back then and lost, and she’d been right to be skeptical.
Baines Fielding, self-made and very impressed with all he’d accomplished, did not negotiate. He didn’t concede. He did not lose . . . or more accurately, he used the threat of cutting off the money to make sure he never lost.
This round he weaponized Kennedy by refusing to give permission for the summer program she wanted to attend until “your mother meets her obligations.” So, fine, Gabby would engage in her agreed-upon yearly grovel for Kennedy’s benefit.
Gabby inhaled nice and deep, reaching for the endless well of self-control required to get through this meeting and the expected barbs Baines would aim at her. She refused to fix her hair or take a quick look in the car window before stepping up to his front door. The years of primping, tucking, sucking in, and wearing spiky heels for his pleasure ended with their divorce.
She rang the doorbell. Minutes passed without him showing up, so she rang it again.
Nothing.
She mentally debated walking away but feared he’d lie and insist she’d never showed up. She couldn’t risk losing even more time with her daughter. If he wanted to play games, she’d play. Maybe she’d sit on the hood of his pretty little sports car and wait for him to race out of the house, screaming about the paint. Even better, she’d walk in the front door.
After some rummaging in her purse, she found the extra key she wasn’t supposed to have. Coming inside without his permission would piss him off, possibly set off an alarm, but so what? The last week in August in DC meant stifling humidity. After a few minutes out of air-conditioning, her clothes stuck to her. She risked melting into a giant overdressed puddle.
She touched the knob and the door opened without the need for the key. No squealing alarm. No yelling about her trespassing in the house she’d picked out and decorated . . . then lost in the divorce.
“Baines?” She called out his name, then, in a much quieter voice, “Asshole?”
The words echoed back to her without a response.
Weird.
Her sandals clicked against the marble foyer. All that shiny white struck her as sleek and pretty when she’d lived there. Now it seemed stark and cold, which fit the current owner’s personality.