The First Lady - James Patterson Page 0,37

on the stove, there are open cans on the counter, and the sink is piled high with dirty dishes. The small wooden table is set with clean ones, and she says, “Mom! I made us dinner!”

I drop my purse and bag in a near chair, and I just nod, taking off the scarf she made for me and then my black wool coat. I should hang them up in the closet, but I’m so very tired, and I toss them on the couch instead.

“Honey … you didn’t have to. We could have gotten takeout from Chang’s.”

There’s sizzling noises as the pasta pot fully boils over. Amelia squeals and goes back to the burner, turns it down, and she says, “Mom … we had takeout from Chang’s last week. Twice. I wanted to make dinner tonight. Besides …”

“What?”

She picks up a ladle, stirs tomato sauce in another pot. The sauce splatters on her apron and the floor.

“Besides, Mom, I’m not dumb. I know we need to save money.”

What to say to something like that?

I can’t.

“I’ll be right back,” I say, and walk down the hallway, slip into my bedroom. I switch on a light and take off my jacket, use a key to open a top drawer, and deposit my baton, radio, SIG Sauer, handcuffs, and pepper spray into the padded interior.

The last thing I put in is my service book that contains my Secret Service badge.

Imprinted in bold letters on the dark leather are these words:

DUTY AND HONOR.

I close the drawer.

The words are mocking me.

CHAPTER 29

THE SPAGHETTI IS chewy and could have been boiled for another two minutes, and the pasta sauce has tiny flakes of burnt material floating throughout—from where it stuck to the bottom of the pan—and there’s homemade garlic bread (toasted bread with melted butter and garlic powder shaken over it) that’s stone-cold, but as I eat, I give my daughter a big smile and say, “Honey, it’s delicious. Thanks so much. You did a great job and I appreciate it.”

She gives me an ear-to-ear smile that lightens my spirit and makes me feel the best I’ve felt since this rotten day began so many long hours ago. As we eat Amelia goes on about her school day, about two friends named Stacy and Amy who are now fighting over a boy, a math test that went well, and how upset our neighbor Todd Pence was when he had to leave early.

Amelia says, twirling a piece of spaghetti on her fork, “Do you think I’m still gonna need to have Todd come by?”

I think of the two kids I had dispatched earlier. “For just a while, hon, until we can move into a better place.”

Her sweet face brightens up. “Are we moving back in with Daddy? In our old home?”

My sweet, airy feeling is gone, brought back to earth by the ongoing disaster that’s my divorce from her father. “Amelia … please. We’ve talked about this, haven’t we? We both love you, very much. But … things aren’t right between the two of us. It has nothing to do with you. You will always be our special girl, our daughter. But … we … I’m not getting back together with your dad.”

Amelia lowers her head, doesn’t speak for a while, even while we’re washing the dishes. There’s an unexpected knock on the door.

Amelia turns, dishcloth in hand. “Mom?”

“Hold on,” I say, and I go back to the bedroom, retrieve my SIG Sauer, and head to the door, which has a thick security chain across the top.

I call out, “Who’s there?”

Another knock.

Well?

My hand lowers to the doorknob, pistol hidden behind my hip.

Marsha Gray watches people go in and out of the apartment building, still impressed at how quickly Grissom dispatched the two punks who had approached her.

Tough broad.

Need to remember that.

She yawns.

How long before she could leave?

Until the lights up there are all out.

Still … she wishes she had more info, more intelligence about what Grissom is doing. Marsha hates relying on a man for her livelihood, especially Parker Hoyt. He’s given her calls about Grissom’s movements, but she refuses to completely trust him.

Something has to be done, and soon, about getting better information.

I unlock the door and step to one side and—

A familiar, smiling, cautious face is looking at me.

“Hi, Sally, can I come in?”

Amelia runs from the kitchen. “Daddy!”

I close the door, undo the chain, and let him in. Ben Miller, my straying husband, walks in, his smile wider, his black hair trimmed well, wearing gray