Woman pj’s, and her hair was a glorious bed-headed mess. Megan rubbed her eyes and smiled.
“Morning, sweetheart,” Rachel said. “How’d you sleep?”
“I had a dream I was a famous author,” Megan said. “Everyone loved my Sadie Scout books.”
“Aw, that’s so wonderful, sweetheart. I bet one day it’ll come true.”
“You think so? You think people will like Sadie?”
Rachel nodded. “I do.”
Then Megan’s smile changed. She looked confused. “Mom?”
“Yes, hon?”
“Weren’t you wearing those clothes when we got home last night?”
Rachel looked down and realized to her embarrassment she’d never changed.
“I guess I was, sweetie.”
“Did you sleep in your clothes?”
“Not really. Mommy had some work to do, and, well, I didn’t really go to bed.”
“That’s weird,” Megan said. “I don’t know why you wouldn’t go to bed.”
Then another door opened, and Eric sauntered downstairs. He was wearing mesh basketball shorts and a Stephen Curry jersey.
“Morning,” Rachel said.
Eric stood at the bottom of the stairs and cocked his head.
“Mom,” he said, “did you go to bed last night?”
“No, unfortunately I had work to do.”
Eric nodded, a disapproving scowl on his face; then he turned around and went back upstairs. Megan shuddered as his door slammed shut.
“What’s wrong with him?” Megan said.
“Nothing,” Rachel replied. Her daughter came over, and Rachel gathered her into her arms. “There’s nothing wrong with him at all.”
Rachel wondered if Megan knew she was lying.
CHAPTER 28
Rachel had four strong cups of coffee pumping through her veins by the time she arrived at the offices of Velos Strategies, a political consulting firm that also happened to employ one Samuel J. Wickersham. She parked on the second floor of a public garage and entered through the walkway into the office building where Velos was housed. She wore a gray pantsuit over a white blouse, large quantities of concealer hiding the dark circles under her eyes.
She walked up to the curved glass-topped security desk. The guard eyed her, knowing she didn’t work there, and said, “Photo ID, name of company, and person visiting.”
Rachel handed over her driver’s license and said, “I’m here to see Sam Wickersham at Velos.”
The man nodded and scanned her ID. Then he tapped a few buttons on his computer.
“I don’t see you registered as a guest. Do you have an appointment with Mr. Wickersham?”
“He must have forgotten to add it in the system. Call Mr. Wickersham and tell him Caroline Drummond is here to see him. He’ll clear it up.”
“Your identification says Rachel Marin.”
“Sam and I are old friends. Trust me, he’ll know what I’m talking about.”
The guard eyed her suspiciously, then nodded and picked up the phone. He dialed, waited, and then said, “Mr. Wickersham, there’s a Caroline Drummond here to see you. Um, yes, that’s what she said. Ms. Drummond. Caroline Drummond. All right, thank you, Mr. Wickersham.”
The guard tapped a few buttons, then handed Rachel a sticker that read GUEST. “Take the second elevator bank to the sixth floor, Miss . . . whatever your name is.”
Rachel thanked him and followed the instructions. The receptionist at Velos was a young blonde woman who appeared to be barely a day out of college. She seemed both bored and angry about her boredom. She didn’t look up when Rachel approached.
“Help you?” she said.
“Here to see Sam Wickersham.”
“Name?”
“Caroline Drummond. He’s expecting me.”
She picked up the phone, pressed a button, and said, “Mr. Sam, there’s a Caroline something here to see you. OK, hots, you got it.”
Rachel wondered if calling Sam “hots” meant they were hooking up or if that was just how millennials greeted each other these days.
“Give him a minute,” the girl said. “He comes quickly.”
“I’ll bet,” Rachel replied.
“Huh?”
“Nothing. I’ll wait.”
Rachel barely had time to sit before a young man with a haphazardly tied ponytail and a crinkled suit entered the reception area. He looked at Rachel, his eyes full of utter confusion. But behind them was a trace of fear. He couldn’t have actually been expecting to see Caroline Drummond but knew that her name was being used as some sort of leverage. I know your secrets.
“Mr. Wickersham,” Rachel said, offering her hand. He took it, waited for Rachel to give her name. She didn’t.
“Um, please, come with me,” he said. Wickersham’s face was covered in five-day-old scruff, and his cheeks looked ashen, eyes bloodshot. He was wearing an unfortunate amount of cologne, and his suit jacket was wrinkled. He looked like he hadn’t showered—or slept—in several days.
Rachel followed Wickersham into a small office. She heard the handle rattle slightly as he closed the door behind them. His