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“We need to call the police,” Camille said, taking in Fern’s bruises, her ripped dress. She sensed a new presence at her side and looked over to find that at some point Ned had joined them.
“No,” Fern said, shaking her head from side to side. “Don’t do that,” she said softly, leaning heavily against the stone wall, the moon glistening off a wound at her temple.
“But that doesn’t make sense,” Camille said in confusion. “He tried to kill you.”
“No,” Fern said, swallowing painfully. “The show. If the police come, it will be over.”
“I will ruin you,” the senator slurred.
“Fern,” Camille said, going to the younger woman’s side. “He’s unhinged. Look at yourself.”
Fern looked down at her fingers, nails ragged and bloodied from fighting the senator. She had lost one shoe in the struggle. “No,” Fern said, clearing her throat. “I’ll get the driver to come back. Please, just get him out of here.”
The senator lifted his chin from the floor and set his drunken gaze on Camille. “You’re part of this too. How did you find out? Who put you up to this?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Camille protested. “I’m just playing the game.”
“This is no game,” the senator snarled. “It’s all over the news. I’m ruined. My family is ruined. And did you even stop to think about what you’ve done to that poor little boy?”
“I don’t know what he’s saying,” Camille insisted, looking to the others for support. “He’s drunk.”
“I’m saying—” the senator strained against the tight grips “—you told the world that I have an eight-year-old son. A son that my wife doesn’t know about, that my boys don’t know about.”
“Who was in the picture?” Maire asked suddenly. “I mean in the puzzle you put together. The woman in the mug shot. Who is she?”
The senator didn’t answer, just turned his head away from them and laid his cheek against the floor. That’s when things clicked for Camille.
“That’s the mother, isn’t it?” she asked. “You have a son, that woman is the mother, and your wife has no idea either one of them exists.”
The senator lifted his head again, tears running down his cheek. “We aren’t playing this game, you know,” he said. “The game is playing us. One of you will be next.”
Fern stepped forward. “He’s not making sense. Let’s get him up and out of here. Now.”
Camille looked to the others. “This is wrong, right? We need to call the police.”
But if Camille thought she was going to get help from Maire and Ned, she was wrong. They all looked away, refusing to make eye contact. Then she got it. They wanted the game to go on. They wanted the ten million dollars. Only Samuel looked as reticent as she felt.
“Unbelievable,” she said, throwing up her hands in defeat. But if she was being honest with herself, Camille wanted the ten million dollars too.
Fern bent down and picked up her cell phone that she must have dropped during the skirmish. Then, to Camille’s surprise, Fern picked up another phone just a few feet away. Who needs two cell phones? Camille wondered as Fern punched a few buttons and pressed one of the phones to her ear, wincing at the contact.
“Just wait,” the senator said, bloody spittle dribbling from the corner of his mouth. “She’ll get you next,” he called over his shoulder as Samuel and Ned lifted the senator to his feet and began dragging him out of the courtyard.
A plastic rectangular card lay on the ground and Camille bent down to pick it up. It was a key card. It had a picture of Fern and her full name. Fernanda Espa.
“Come get him, now,” Fern said coldly into the phone. “And make sure he doesn’t come back.”
She knew she had heard that voice before. It was all coming together. The Converse tennis shoes, sunglasses, the hat, the context, all explained why she hadn’t made the connection before. She thought of her former client Fern. Fernanda. Nan.
Fern was Nan, the woman who came into her office months ago. The woman who confided to Camille about a ruthless boss who would bury anyone who crossed her. The woman who then disappeared without a trace. “Nan?” Camille whispered.
Fern covered the mouthpiece of her phone and narrowed her eyes at Camille. “What did you say?”
“Never mind,” Camille said, stepping away from Fern, her heart slamming against her chest.
She wanted to shake Nan or Fern or whatever her name was and demand to know what the hell she was up to. What kind of dangerous game was she playing and why had she dragged Camille into the middle of it all?
TWENTY-FIVE
