“This is not right,” he said.
“Walk him the long way, Jessup.” She opened the door, slid inside. “He worked hard this morning.”
The Land Rover Defender was old, purchased as an estate vehicle in the infancy of her marriage. She remembered the day it was delivered; she was twenty-two years old, and still in awe of her husband. He was two decades her senior, about to run for the Senate and wealthy beyond belief. He could have had any woman in the world, but he chose her over all the others-not just for her beauty, he’d said, but for her elegance and refinement, for the poise she wore like a garment. After long years as a bachelor he needed a face to go with his political life, and she was perfect. When the Defender was delivered, they drove it to the highest point on the estate, a long narrow ridge that looked down on the house and grounds. He’d lifted her skirt, put her on the hood, and she’d thought then that his sweaty hands were the precursors of happiness. But he never looked her in the face as he screwed her; he watched the house and thought of his glory: four thousand acres and a pair of trophy tits. Two months later, he won the Senate seat in a landslide. A year after that, he had his first new girlfriend.
Leaving Jessup with the horse, she drove to the same spot on the same ridge, a slab of granite that had probably been there for a million years. She parked and looked down on the manicured lawns, the stables, and the twin lakes that looked like black glass shot with gray. The grass was colorless in the rain, the forest beyond a hint of dark canopy. Rain muted everything, but the house, rising, looked as tall and massive as it had that day so many years ago. For an instant, Abigail wished she could reach back through time and touch the young woman she’d been, all smooth skin and conviction. She wanted to slap that girl in the face, tell her to pull down her skirt and run like the devil was at her heels. Instead, she pulled out the revolver she kept in the glove compartment. It was heavy in her hand, the metal cool and blued. She looked into the brutish barrel, then at the bullets nestled like eggs in the chambers. She straightened her arm, sighted at the house, and for a moment entertained dark fantasies. Then she put the pistol back where it belonged: in the glove compartment, locked.
She drove down the rough track, gravel clanking on the undercarriage, the shocks worn and loose. Where the forest ended, she turned across a final field, then picked up the main estate road that ran to the stables and the back of the house. She saw Jessup at the stables, then turned for the garage and caught a brief glimpse of the long, impossibly straight drive. At the far end, the gate was a postage stamp of twisted iron.
Abigail drove to the rear door and killed the engine. Inside, she ignored the stares and the hurried movements of the household staff. She turned down a narrow hall, then through the butler’s pantry and into the kitchen, where two cooks looked up, too startled say a word as they took in the long, ill-fitting coat, the mud on her feet, and the ruin of her hair. “Where is Mr. Vane?” Abigail asked.
“Ma’am?”
“Mr. Vane? Where is he?”
“He is in the study.”
“Has Julian eaten?”
The cooks shared a worried glance. “Mr. Vane says no one is to go into that part of the house.”
“That’s absurd.”
“Mr. Senator says-”
“I don’t care what
“Yes, ma’am.”
Abigail left the back halls used by the servants and entered the main house, the ceiling soaring above her. She passed window treatments that hung twenty feet to the floor, a dining room table that could seat thirty. She entered the foyer and felt coolness in the air as the ceiling rose forty feet, the stairwell curving around the vast space as it spiraled to the third floor and the vaulted cupola beyond. She climbed the stairs, passing an iron chandelier the size of her bed and portraits of long-dead men who weren’t actually related to her husband. At the first landing, she turned for the guest wing, which was long and broad and rich. Six rooms lined the hall, three on each side. More paintings hung on the walls. Antique sideboards gleamed. A man sat in a chair halfway down the hall. He was middle-aged and fit, with black hair and shoes that caught the light when he stood. He was neither a member of the house staff, nor, as far as she could tell, a member of her husband’s office. His hands were large under thick wrists and snow-white cuffs.
“Good morning, Mrs. Vane.”
His tie was the same navy as the rug, his gaze as flat as the floor on which it lay. Yet, the eyes moved: up and down, light blue and steady. She let him have his look. Stories circulated about her, she knew; and her appearance this morning would no doubt make for another one.
She could not care less.
“Where’s Mrs. Hamilton?”
“Sleeping, I assume. The senator deemed her unfit to watch over his son.”
“The senator deemed?”
“He dismissed her three hours ago.”
She tilted her head, her own face as hard as his, her eyes just as appraising. “Do I know you?”
“Richard Gale. I work for your husband.”
“That was not my question.”
“We’ve never met.”
“But you know who I am?”
“Of course.”
She weighed his appearance even further: wide shoulders and narrow waist, the first hint of creases in the skin of his neck. He stood perfectly still, light on his feet and amused. Abigail recognized the arrogance common to men of a certain physical quality. She’d seen it often in military officers and in field agents prized by the intelligence community. Years ago, she’d found such men exciting, but she’d never been as wise in her youth as she’d imagined herself to be. “Are we going to have a problem?” she asked.
“No, ma’am. You’re cleared to go in.”
“Cleared?”
“On the senator’s list.”
She frowned. “What is it, exactly, that you do for my husband?”
“Whatever is required.”
“Are you a federal agent?” He blinked once, and kept his mouth shut. “A private contractor,” Abigail concluded.
“I work for your husband. That’s really all I’m obligated to say.”
“Is my son under guard?”
“He’s not tried to leave. He’s-”
“What?”
Gale shrugged.
“Let’s get a few things straight, Mr. Gale. My son is not a prisoner. This is his home. So, if he wishes to leave this room, you may call me or his father, you may follow him if you must; but if you lay a hand on him or try to restrain his movement in any way, I’ll make you regret it.”
“Senator Vane left strict instructions.”
“Senator Vane is not the one of whom you should be frightened.”
The humor drained out of his eyes.
She stepped closer.
“The senator has concerns that I do not: appearances, for one, lawsuits and reporters and voters. His worries are larger than his son, so he does foolish things, like make you sit in this hall with a responsibility you cannot possibly handle. But that’s not my problem. I’m a mother of one son, that son. Do you understand me?”
