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Of course. But she was still worried. Her family had revealed a lot to him. She wanted him to understand and accept them. She placed a hand on his arm. “I know the storytelling feels manipulative, but it’s not. We can’t understand each other’s story, each other’s pain, unless it feels like we are experiencing it for ourselves.”
He let out a long breath. “Give me the night, okay? I’ll see you at your club tomorrow. I’d like to take a look around.”
She understood what he was asking, but it still hurt. It still felt like rejection. “Sure.”
He bent and kissed her on the lips. “Night, darlin’. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She watched him leave. Tomorrow? She didn’t believe that. Not for one minute.
Chapter 51
Inside the lavish sitting area of his spacious InterContinental Hotel suite, Porter Rush ended his phone call and placed his cell on the stack of files in front of him. His palms were sweating. He shouldn’t be doing this. It wasn’t him. He didn’t do intrigue. He didn’t manipulate government agencies, make them his lap dog. And he sure as hell didn’t lie to his father, play him, in order to make him look innocent to the FBI.
His father came out of his room cleaned up, dressed for the dinner, and looking at the index cards his speech was written on. The man had to get more comfortable with a teleprompter. “Porter, who are the main donors at our dinner tonight?”
This was it. He stood up. “Dad, remember when I told you about that investigation into Mukta Parish?”
His father’s eyebrows drew together. “I thought you were going to make that go away.”
Porter’s stomach turned. This “going away” was not an option. The only option was to play the hand dealt. “Why would you want this to go away, Dad?” It was a lifeline. “You’re a victim fighting back. For years men have been wrongly accused, blackmailed and made to dance because a woman decided to lie. Enough.”
His father’s face changed from calm to fury. The difference between day and night. “Don’t try to spin my own life to me, Porter. I know what happened. And you seem to think this is going to be easy. It’s not. You have to weigh the cost here. One cabinet position versus being dragged through the mud.”
“Dad, the FBI investigation into Mukta Parish all but guaranteed we were going to be dragged through the mud. You saw what the file said. Your voting record. The funding… But these tapes change all of that.”
The tapes would shield his father from the worst of it and send the ire toward Mukta Parish. Ire she rightly deserved after years of torturing his father, holding this over his head.
“Awfully convenient,” his father said. “These tapes.”
Not one muscle on Porter’s face moved. “What is it you say when we’re given donations from questionable sources, Dad? Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth?”
His father pocketed his index cards, went into the kitchenette, opened the fridge, and took out a Perrier. He opened it with a snap. “Porter you’re putting unnecessary energy into this strategy.” He took a sip from the bottle. A bottle big enough for four. “It’s almost an obsession with you. Once elected, I’ll be nearly untouchable. Let’s focus on getting there. Not on this sideshow.”
The man had no idea. He was that clueless. That self-confidence was great, most of the time, but right now it rankled. His dad honestly thought this would just go away. Porter knew better. Knew enough that he was risking everything on what would happen in this room in the next few moments.
There was a knock on the door. Porter let out a breath. “It’ll be okay, Dad. Just answer the agent’s questions honestly.”
His father looked toward the door and back to Porter’s guilty face. Slamming his bottle onto the counter, he stormed across the room and grabbed Porter by the lapels of his suit jacket. “What have you done?”
The knock came again. “Let go, Dad. I need to answer it.”
His father let go, but Porter saw that his hands shook. Taking a steadying breath, Porter crossed the room and opened the door. The FBI agent stepped inside and Porter introduced him to his father.
He approached Porter’s father without hesitation. “Your son said it would be okay, Senator, if I took a small moment of your time.”
His father cast Porter a wounded look. “Of course. Let’s sit.”
Porter couldn’t sit. He paced, watched as the two men took seats on the suite’s stylish couches.
The agent wasted no time. “Senator Rush, it’s recently come to my attention that you may have been a victim of a scam that Mukta Parish has been running on influential men.”
His father visibly relaxed. “It’s been many years. I’m not interested in pressing charges.”
The agent’s eyebrows rose to his hairline. “With all due respect, sir, whether or not you want to press charges isn’t why I’m here. I’m here to ask you if you know of any reason someone might want to murder your illegitimate daughter, Gracie Parish.”
His father shot to his feet. “What? She’s dead?” His gaze swung from the agent to Porter, his eyes filled with genuine regret. “I didn’t…” He stepped toward Porter. “You have to believe…”
Porter’s relief was so intense his legs almost gave out from under him. His father had done good. Better than he could have expected. He went to his father, grabbed and hugged him. “Dad. You weren’t listening. He didn’t ask if you’d killed her.”
He stepped back from his father. They exchanged glances. “And no, she’s not dead.”
His father visibly composed himself, as much as he could, and plopped back down in an unsteady lump.
The agent leaned forward. “Sorry that I had to test you like that, sir. I had to make sure. And now that I know, I want you to know I’m on your side here. It’s going to be okay.”
His father, ruffled feathers soothed, said, “I’m sorry, Special Agent… What was your name again?”
The trim man with the plain face smiled. “It’s Dillon Mackenzie. Mack for short.”
Chapter 52
Wearing a charcoal-gray pantsuit buttoned up over a white cami, with her hair pulled back into a tight bun, Gracie speed-walked through the hospital corridor. Her heart kept time with her sharp-heeled footfalls. The click and pound echoed across her jangled nerves.
One more room to visit.
Noting the numbers on the doors, she counted them down like a doomsday clock. When she arrived at the correct room, the door was closed. She took a deep, fortifying breath. Using a single knuckle, she rapped politely.
The door was opened by an older man. Thick black hair, still black eyes, the memory of smiles lined a face darkened by the heritage of desert sun.
His questioning gaze ran over her, over her suit, then settled on the vase of flowers. His heavy eyebrows bunched together. “Can I help you?”
He had a mild Middle Eastern accent. Gracie let out a breath. “I’m Gracie Parish.” She swallowed. “Owner of Club When? I’m here to see Delilah. Is she available?”
Using his body and the half-opened door to block her view, he turned and looked back into the room.
Someone inside spoke. “Let her in, Poppa.”
He gave way with a pointed look that said he’d throw her out at a moment’s notice. And the vase suddenly felt heavy and slippery in her sweaty hands. She walked inside. The private room was pac
ked with flowers. They lined the windowsill above the radiator, stood on extra wheeled trays, and were even on the floor beside the many chairs in the room, chairs filled with people.
Gracie had never seen so many people squeezed into one room, and considering her family, that was saying something. She almost made a joke about it being a fire hazard, but she tamped down that horrifying thought fast and hard.
Reclining in the bed was the woman from the bar. The one Gracie now knew was named Delilah. Half her leg was missing. She had bandages across her face. Her eyes were sunken and bruised.
The people in the room were silent, watching Gracie. “I wanted to come and say how sorry I am,” she said. “And to see if there is anything I could do to make things easier for you.”
One of the men in the room spoke to one of the women in Arabic. She didn’t understand the words, but it felt like a condemnation.
Delilah flashed her dark eyes at them. A warning? Agreement?
Gracie swallowed. She stepped forward with the flowers, never feeling more inadequate in her life. It reminded her of a poem she’d once heard about bringing a cup of water to the ocean. Flowers. What a meaningless gesture.
Her eyes strayed to the blanket, to the missing part of Delilah’s leg. Her heart fell to her stomach, making it pitch like an unsteady boat.
Delilah shifted forward in the bed. “Could you leave us?”
Gracie startled, her face growing hot. She stepped back. And then the other people in the room began to rise. Oh. She’d meant her family should leave.
The people began to rise, move from their positions holding up the walls, and shuffled out. As they did, one of the women said something cross to Gracie in Arabic.
From the bed, Delilah answered in the same language. She seemed to reprimand her. The woman left with the others.
“Excuse her,” Delilah said. “She moved from Iraq to get away from things like this.”
