Evelyn raised her head from the wall. On the other hand, maybe Clancy Flynn simply wanted to talk to her.
“It’s pretty late. I really shouldn’t. Chris will be—”
“He’ll be fine. We’ll be right outside.”
She slowly moved her eyes so she could see out the crack in the door. Clancy had his head tipped to the side, his hands in his pockets. He seemed pretty mellow for someone coordinating a SWAT raid. Suddenly, he raised his eyes and locked his gaze with hers.
“Come on out. We have a lot of catching up to do.”
* * *
Richard was one of the anointed few, and if he ever needed to be reminded of that, all he had to do was look out his office window. For the last two terms, he’d been situated on the second floor of the Rayburn Building, where the view, especially on a night like this one, was nothing short of intoxicating.
He could see the Capitol dome, the thirty-six windows of the rotunda shedding golden light into the darkness. He enjoyed the vast geometric display of the District of Columbia spread out at his feet, as if it had been designed for his pleasure alone. Sometimes, just the view from up here could give him a hard-on.
Not tonight.
He reached for the cut glass decanter and poured two fingers of cognac. In the darkness, he sipped slowly, appreciating the rich combination of flavors—caramel, grape, and ancient oak. His cardiologist would bitch-slap him if he knew he was drinking, but then again, tonight wasn’t about his cardiologist. Or his furious wife, or his terrible mistakes, or his position as one of the anointed. Tonight, he was just a man alone, having a heart-to-bypassed-heart with himself.
Though Congress would be back in session in just two weeks, no one was working late that night, not even his most overachieving legislative assistants. Members of his staff were at home with their families or significant others, sweating and worrying. The faint odor of scandal had already begun to cling to the draperies around here. Richard’s media relations guy said rumors were all over town that Tamara was leaving him. His constituent services director asked if it was true that he missed two meetings because of health complications. Richard knew how it worked—as the congressman goes, so goes the staff. On the Hill, the concept of “job security” was an oxymoron.
He took another delicious sip, savoring the pleasure to be had in his only noncompliant behavior since surgery. The wood-paneled walls and thick carpet absorbed the heavy silence. Darkness hid him. The room felt lifeless, the perfect setting for a man on the edge. This was it. It was time to make a decision.
When he said his daughter was more important than his career or marriage, was that the truth? Was he really willing to pay the price for such a choice? He couldn’t afford to stew about it any longer—yet another day of bulletins, evidence review, and interviews of potential eyewitnesses had gone by and the FBI still had jack. The girl had been missing for more than two days now, and the special agent in charge informed him that they were now fifty percent less likely to ever find Christina.
Richard jolted at the sound of a single rap on his door. “Who the hell is it?”
“It’s me.”
Of course it was M.J. The woman didn’t even have a cat to feed. Or a plant to water.
“Come on in.” The door cracked, spilling hallway light across the royal blue plush carpet.
“Drinking in the dark, Congressman?”
“Yeah. Care to join me?”
She shrugged. “Why not?”
As was customary, M.J. took a seat in one of the overstuffed armchairs cozied up to his eighteenth-century cherry desk, turning on his desk lamp. She accepted the drink and raised her glass. “To eighteen great years.”