The Wrong Side of Right(3)

2




He took two steps and stopped, and as he froze, everyone else did too, watching the space between us. And by everyone, I mean the everyone-in-the-world who was in my tiny living room.

Two men in suits flanked the senator from a deferential distance. The shorter man beamed at me like a happy leprechaun, eyes crinkling and bald head shining. The other scowled down at his phone, his dark hair and heavy brow giving him the hooded look of a bird of prey. A sharply dressed redhead was leaning against the love seat, lips parted as though she was dying to say something but didn’t dare. I glanced over my shoulder, spotting my huge rescuer blocking the front door. His stance was familiar from action movies. Security. Secret Service? My aunt stared up at him in polite terror, as if it might be against the rules to walk away. And just as I was wondering where my uncle was, he swung through the kitchen door with a glass of iced tea.

“Here you go, sir.” Uncle Barry held out the drink with his eyes fixed on the carpet. He looked like a servant in his own home, but who could blame him? He was offering a beverage to the man in line for the most powerful position in the world. For his part, Senator Cooper looked less and less terrified, more and more weary the longer he stood there. Then he broke, taking the glass from my uncle with a thank-you, and the words I’d heard outside echoed faintly in my head, finally forming a coherent sentence. Him. Father. He is my . . .

His eyes returned to mine, freezing me to the spot. He extended his hand with a smile that didn’t reach them. “I’m Mark Cooper,” he said, sounding exactly, freakishly like his campaign ad.

“I’m Kate.” I shook. “Kate Quinn.” He looked so lost that I said what he was supposed to say. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

It was as though I’d put down a loaded gun. The whole room let out its breath in one big huff.

But then Senator Cooper opened his mouth—and closed it. Downed the tea and handed the glass to my uncle, who was sweating through his Gamecocks T-shirt. The room was too quiet. I didn’t know how to fill the silence.

The red-haired woman pulled away from the love seat, smoothed her sweater set, and peered at me with something like sympathy. “Kate, I’m sure you’ve got a lot of questions, and the truth is—we do too.”

The senator turned away, his suit wrinkling as his shoulders collapsed. “There’s no question, Nancy. I mean, come on. Look at her.”

Redhead Nancy’s smile faltered, her eyes flicking back to him. “Sir, we need to be sure. This is too big a—”

“I know what this is.” He stopped moving. Just stood there, staring at the ground.

Bird of Prey peered down at Leprechaun, and by some silent agreement, Leprechaun stepped forward. “Should we go ahead?”

Go ahead with what?

At the senator’s weary nod, he disappeared through the swinging door.

Bird of Prey scanned the room. When his eyes met mine, they stayed there. There was something clinical in his stare, like he was adding up my face, my clothes, my expression. His phone buzzed. He lifted it without breaking eye contact, then barked a greeting, “Webb,” and turned to follow the small man into the kitchen.

I had to stop myself from racing after them, dragging them back. Instead of this tableau settling into place, I felt it spinning off, disintegrating like I was on a carnival ride. I glanced, desperate, at my aunt and uncle, but they were united in paralysis.

“I’m sorry—” I had to say something. “What is this? What’s going on?”

The men’s voices in the back room got louder, one-sided conversations into cell phones. Yelling about me? About this famous man, settling into my uncle’s chair with his head in his hands?

I drew in a breath, but my voice still came out shaky. “Are you my father?”

His head shot up, eyes alert and very blue. Blue like mine.

“I think I am.”

The defeat in his voice muffled any thrill I might have felt from those words.

Nancy let out a cocktail-party laugh and started rubbing my back like she was trying to get dirt off of it. “Let’s just make sure, sir.”

As if on cue, a woman in scrubs came in from the kitchen, looking at least as dazed as me, holding a medical bag, rubber gloves, a syringe.

Nancy pressed past me. “Did you sign?”

The woman nodded.

“And you understand that means you cannot speak to anyone, not your husband . . .”

“I understand.” The woman turned to me and visibly softened. “Kate, is it?”

I nodded, numb.

“We’re gonna draw some blood. Not a whole lot.”

I perched on the sofa and let her tie a band around my arm, trying not to wince at the pinch of the needle in front of all these strangers.