The Phoenix Candidate(67)

“Well, it’s going nowhere fast,” I say sourly. “This picture is ancient history. It’s over.”

“Not by a long shot.” Trey slides a pink message slip across his desk to me. “You really should answer your cell phone more, Grace, because I think I’m developing a little crush on Jared Rankin’s sexy voice. He can consult for me any time.”

My eyes snap up to Trey’s, realizing he knows Jared Rankin and Mr. Bouquet are one in the same.

“You know who he is?”

“Please. You underestimate me.” He sniffs. “Now call that man back.”

He leaves, pulling my office door closed behind him, and I read Trey’s pink slip:





He wants me to write, “Grace. Can I please speak to you for one fucking minute?” I told him the swearing was unnecessary, but he said it was “totally fucking necessary.” So I told him to have a nice fucking day.





I laugh at Trey’s color commentary on the message and pick up my office phone and dial. It rings and goes to Jared’s voicemail.

Damn.

I can’t leave a message, and so I put the receiver down quietly in the cradle when I hear the beep. I pack up my laptop and go back to the outer office where Trey’s on the phone, ably handling another press inquiry for comment.

“I’ll be happy to ask her to comment, but as you can see by the photo, she might be otherwise occupied this evening.”

My eyes widen with alarm. “Trey!” I hiss.

“See you at home, Mama Bea,” he says, and puts the phone down with a smirk.

“Gah! You just about gave me a heart attack.”

“Well, you gave Mama Bea one, so we’re even,” he says. “She wants to know why you haven’t brought your fella by and properly introduced him.”

I roll my eyes. “I haven’t properly anythinged with him,” I say.

“I can see that,” Trey says drily, and I give him a sour look for the double entendre.

“I’m going to get out of here. Try to actually sleep tonight.”

“I’ll hold down the fort.”





***





I’m looking for Jared as my cab pulls up to my apartment, but he’s not lurking in the doorway. I don’t know why I thought he would be here. It’s not like we parted on good terms.

We just parted.

The end.

So why did he call me?

Damage control. That thought hits me and drags most of the remaining energy from my limbs. It’s a chore to punch the elevator button and unlock my apartment door. And it’s quiet inside, no signs of Jared.

Just memories of him. Here, there, everywhere.

I drop my keys on the bar, touch Ethan’s picture, and flick on the lights. One, two, three. The familiar cadence gives me pause and I return to Ethan’s picture again. My little boy. Lost.

A new part of my heart was born with him, a part of me grew up with him in love that could cover mountains, that could do feats of superhero strength. And a part of me died as I buried him, bereft from the loss of the best part of me.

The best thing I ever did, ever made.

My child.

My only one.

Ethan’s picture centers me. This loss today, of my dream to become a running mate, and then maybe vice president, doesn’t feel as important compared to that.

But losing Jared? That hurts deep in my bones.

And losing the opportunity to make a difference, to change the world in some way that could save another mother from the loss of her child? That matters most of all.

I know what I have to do. Darrow is a threat to that opportunity—big and real. He could still win this nomination, win the White House, and cut the guts out of any legislation I put forward.

And so I call Trey and ask him to book me a flight to Missouri.





Chapter Forty





The cab drops me in front of the only place in all of Springfield, Missouri, that I can think of: Conover’s campaign headquarters.

Huge banners in the plate-glass windows of some defunct retail store read, America stands with Conover and Conover for America. Behind the glass, a hive of haphazard desks host dozens of young, T-shirted volunteers talking on phones and tapping away at computers.

Their energy is intoxicating.

I push open the glass double doors and step up to a reception desk that was probably most recently a cash register stand. “May I help you?” an elderly woman asks. She beams at me like I’ve just brought her pie.

“I’m here to see Senator Conover.” I pray he’s not out golfing or some other active-lifestyle photo op to prove to voters that he’s healthy as a horse. Early news reports said he was released after a battery of tests that all proclaimed him dehydrated and tired, but healthy.

“Oh, he’s in a meeting right now, dear. Do you have an appointment, I hope?”