Annoyance dances across Jordan’s features as she faces the woman again. “No, Mrs. Taylor will not be in attendance. She is not a fan of golf.”
“But it’s their anniversary,” the reporter says. “Why are they spending their wedding anniversary apart? I thought you said there was no validity to the claims that their marriage was on the rocks.”
Jordan’s lips part, but no sound comes out for several long seconds.
“Is she short circuiting?”
Cal has been so quiet, I forgot he was even in the room.
“That’s what it looks like.”
Finally, she finds her voice again, but when she starts to speak, I think it might have been better for her to have stayed quiet. “Oh my God, Freda. Will you get off it? The President and First Lady are fine. Everything is fine! Everything is fine.Everything. Is. Fine.”
The rest of the room is stunned into silence, and the same shocked quietness sweeps over me and Cal. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Jordan this way. It’s like she’s a rock and the reporter, who’s name I still don’t know, is a hammer, cracking her over the head until she breaks apart and reveals whatever is at her center.
“Why aren’t the Taylors spending their anniversary together?” the reporter asks, voice raised to ensure she’s heard over Jordan’s continued screeching. “Is Selene Taylor in hiding because Leland Marsh is a threat to her safety? The people in this country have a right to know the answer these questions. The well-being of the First couple is a matter of national security,” she reminds everyone in the room. Most of the other reporters can be seen nodding, but none of them speak, letting her continue hounding Jordan.
“Has Mr. Marsh made any attempts to contact Mrs. Taylor?”
“I don’t know,” Jordan whispers, sagging against the podium.
Flashes from several cameras light up the room, documenting the unraveling of a once formidable woman. Still, the reporter keeps going.
“Where will Mrs. Taylor be this weekend if not in Florida with her husband?”
Jordan raises a hand to her face, fingers shaking as she wipes sweat from her brow. “I don’t know,” she says again. The reporter stands, allowing the camera to capture her side profile. I’m impressed and proud to find that it’s a young Black woman with a short, puffy afro and earrings shaped like Africa swinging from her ears.
“Will she be in DC? At their home in McLean? Will she be out of the country or back home in Georgia visiting her family?”
“I don’t?—”
“Where is Mrs. Taylor right now, Jordan?” She shakes her head, but the reporter isn’t having it. “She hasn’t been seen indays. All her public appearances have been canceled with no explanation. It is your job to explain to the American people what is happening with the leader of this country and his family, so you need to tell us right now, Ms. St. James,where is the First Lady?”
Jordan stands up suddenly, mustering all of her strength to run away from the podium just after she shouts, “I DON’T KNOW!” a final time.
25
SELENE
Monique slaps my ass on her way to the kitchen. “Up and at ‘em, Gone Girl, time for our walk.”
She’s been calling me by that since we watched the playback of the press conference where Jordan fell apart, taking pleasure in how much I hate it. I glare at her from my very cozy spot on the couch and let out a groan because of the stupid nickname but also because moving feels like something of an impossibility for me at the moment.
I’m nestled between the two men who took turns folding me like a pretzel last night. My head is resting on Cal’s thigh and my hands are tucked under my chin. He’s running his fingers through my hair while he reads the paper with a pair of black framed glasses resting on his nose. Beck has my feet in his lap, gentle callused hands rubbing small circles into my soles while he watches the Hallmark movie playing on the screen because we’re all tired of the news.
It’s a perfectly lazy afternoon, and I’m more content than I should be, laying here with a full heart and the sunlight streaming in from the windows kissing my skin, learning things about the men I love that I would have known before if we’d everhad the kind of time we have now. This is the most we’ve been around each other since we met, and now I have another name to add to the list of monsters I have to thank for this bittersweet gift.
Phineas Gambit.
Beck and Cal identified him four days ago, and since then we’ve learned everything there is to know about him online, including the fact that he’s had Mason Woodard and Patrick Garrison on his payroll for over a decade. We did a deep dive on his limited social media and found them lurking in the background of a lot of photos, guns on their hips, comms in their ears, determined expressions on both of their faces as they scanned the crowds on red carpets and inside galas for any threat to their employer.
Tying Gambit to Garrison and Woodard was a definite win, proving our theory that their addition to Aubrey’s detail was a way for the person who owns him to keep an eye on him while remaining in the shadows. What’s been harder to do, is tie the corrupt billionaire to Officer Travis Langham. Obviously, we know they’re both involved in this web of deception, but it’s unclear when Langham was brought into all of this and if he was recruited by Gambit personally or contracted by someone on his payroll.
The timing of it all matters most to me because if Langham was in bed with Gambit on the day that we met…
A shiver runs through me, and I push the thought away, refusing to go there.
“You know she’s coming back for you,” Cal murmurs, the strokes of his fingers growing even more intoxicating.
