The President's Wife - Kathy Myme Page 0,70
alibi is well and truly airtight,” I reply.
“That’s what I figured,” she says. “Which leaves two.”
“Who are they, I ask?”
“Andrews and Jackson.”
I freeze. That doesn’t seem possible. Andrews has been helping me deal with the press since I started my campaign, and Jackson… Well, to be honest, I hadn’t even considered him. He’d been on my security detail since I was elected, and who knows what he could have overheard.
“That’s as far as I got I’m afraid,” Miss Robertson says. “I have rounded up all the press clippings with photos of them for you to have a look at, but it seems like they both appear multiple times. Here.”
She passes me another folder, filled with printouts. I flip through. They are all articles with information and photos leaked by the leaker. I flip through them, one by one.
At first, it seems like neither of them could be behind it. And then I realize it.
One of the photos is at a public event, and the angle is one I’ve seen before. “Does this photo look like it was taken by a reporter?”
Miss Robertson looks at it. “I think so, that’s what the photos from the press usually look like at that door.”
I flip through a few more. “This one too.”
“And this one, and this one as well,” she says, checking some more.
“Oh, that is clever,” I say. “Our leaker has been sending in photos of me with them in the background to hide their identity. Only they’ve not taken those photos, they’ve stolen them from the press.”
“What, you think these photos have just been stolen off other news articles?”
“That’s exactly what I’m suggesting. Or they’ve had someone take them for them, but either way it doesn’t matter.”
Miss Robertson looks through the last of the photos, a look of surprise on her face. “Then that means, the leaker is…”
“Uhuh,” I say, heading for the door. “That son of a bitch.”
Veronica
“I’ll wait for you here, ma’am,” Jackson says to me, standing outside the sitting-room door.
“Sure.”
I’ve taken Andrews back to my East Wing residence. It seems like the quietest place to have a chat, away from prying eyes and eager ears.
We sit down on the plush couch, sinking back into it. It’s at times like these when I remember just how much all this furniture is probably worth… I bet I’d never be able to afford half of it even if I saved up for years.
“What did you want to talk about, Veronica?” Andrews asks, his voice perfectly patient.
“So…” I sigh, not sure where to begin. “I’m just not sure where this is going.”
“Where what is going?”
“This thing,” I say, gesturing around us, “between David and me.”
“Why do you say that?”
“When you said that David is trying to control me… I feel like you’re right.” My voice is a quiet whisper, like my whole body is reluctant to confess my thoughts. Like I’m trying to stop myself. “And there’s something else… something I’ve been thinking for a while…”
“What is it?” Andrews looks relaxed, but underneath it all I see a glimpse of eagerness. He wants to know more.
And why wouldn’t he? This is the hottest American scandal, maybe ever.
“What if David only flew out to see me in Cali that day because he was worried about his ratings?” I can’t get the thought of it off my mind. “Surely it wouldn’t have looked good if his First Lady had gone missing, especially not after he’d announced our engagement.”
Andrews is quiet.
I’m not sure what to make of his silence, so I take that as an invitation to continue. “What if that’s all he’s cared about, this whole time? His ratings?” Even though he’s spending most nights in my bed. Even though he’s told me there’s something between us, I can’t shake this horrible sinking feeling. “What if the President is using me for public approval?”
I want Andrews to say something in loud objection. To tell me I’m wrong. But instead, he simply sighs and places his arms behind his head.
“Veronica…” he murmurs.
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry… but isn’t what you just said obvious?”
The question hits me like a freighter train. “Huh?”
“Your ‘relationship’ with the President, if you can call it that, was only ever started with David’s approval ratings in mind.”
“I know,” I say, somewhat impatiently, “but things have changed. We’ve… we’ve gotten closer.” A tinge of red stains my cheeks.
But Andrews looks unmoved. “I’m sorry, Veronica. But I’m David’s press secretary. We devise strategy together. I know how he thinks.” He looks apologetic. “Nothing has changed. Your