seemed to be a sitting room with one wall of bookshelves; the room to the right an even grander living room, everything decorated in traditional American. It was a comfortable house, even with the vast spaces.
But she stared at the fireplace in the living room.
And the painting above it.
She froze.
That’s me.
“The senator lost his daughter thirty years ago,” the housekeeper said. “She was lovely.”
Yes, it was Monique, but it was also Lucy. Lucy had seen pictures of Monique, but not this one—she wondered if Jonathan had commissioned it based on both her and Monique’s photos. Monique died when she was seventeen, this was Monique … older. It was the eyes … Monique’s eyes were more catlike and a lighter brown than Lucy’s. They had almost identical wavy long black hair and the same general build, similar cheekbones, and proportions, and Monique’s paler skin was reflected in the painting. But Lucy’s eyes were dark brown and rounder, and those were the eyes that stared back at her.
That was the moment Lucy realized the depth of Jonathan Paxton’s obsession with her.
“Agent Kincaid,” the woman said. “This way, please.”
Lucy followed the woman past the grand staircase and to the left. The hall was wide; to the left were windows that looked out on a courtyard. At the end of the hall, double doors led to a library.
It was one of the most beautiful rooms she had ever seen.
And standing there in the middle of the room, in front of a large wood desk, was the former senator.
“Lucy,” he said. “I should be surprised, but I’m not. You are, truly, one of the most intelligent, insightful people I’ve ever met.”
“I came for Sean.”
“Please sit,” he said, motioning to one of the couches that sat, face to face, in front of a two-story window. “I’d like to talk.”
She weighed her options: be forceful and demanding or listen and be ready to act.
Dillon had always told her that she could learn more about a psychopath by being observant.
Watching, listening, sensing his physical response. Tension, relaxation. Sociopaths are liars by nature but everyone—even the best sociopath—has a tell. Mostly, listen. They want to be understood, accepted, revered.
And for Jonathan Paxton, he wanted her love.
She sat on the couch that faced the door. There was another door, smaller, almost hidden, embedded between two built-in bookshelves. She could see that from here as well. Plus she had a line of sight outside the windows. She saw no one.
But someone was watching. Another bodyguard? Colton Thayer?
She sat. She was armed; no one had searched her. She would have given up her gun if they had. But Jonathan must know she was armed. And he also must know that she didn’t come alone. Yet he was calm, almost at peace.
A sliver of fear worked its way up her spine.
Is Sean already dead?
She almost pulled her gun and demanded to see her husband. But she didn’t. She sat quietly, waiting for Jonathan to talk.
To listen. To assess. To find the truth.
“I have missed you, Lucy,” he said. “I hate how we left things.”
“Jonathan,” she said, using his first name for the first time. She’d always called him senator, out of respect and position. But they were peers now. “I admired you, believed in you. You used me and betrayed my trust. That is why I walked away.”
“I never wanted to hurt you, Lucy. It pains me that I did.”
“I believe you. What is it called, the law of unintended consequences? Yet, I can’t imagine that you could think that I would accept murder. You hid that from me because you knew I wouldn’t participate; that I would in fact turn you in.”
“Would you have?”
“Yes.”
“The system is broken. You and I both know that.”
“No. The system is imperfect, not broken.”
He leaned back on the couch, as if they were having a philosophical discussion over a glass of wine, and there wasn’t an imprisoned man somewhere in this compound, or an FBI SWAT team surrounding the place.
He didn’t live in reality.
“Shouldn’t we do everything in our power to fix what’s imperfect?”
“At what cost?”
“What is the cost of a rapist going free versus his death? Should other women suffer a horrific fate because the system released a predator early?”
“When you were a prosecutor, you lobbied for tougher penalties for sex offenders. You won many battles. That’s where our focus needs to be. But deciding the law is wrong—and it might be—and then creating your own laws and executing them—where does it end?”
“In justice.”
“No. It’s not