“Why would he do that?”
“Because he’s an obnoxious little shit of a brother, that’s why.”
I…honestly don’t know what he’s talking about. “What?”
He sighs. “Gene and I had set up what we thought was a foolproof plan to take a weekend trip to Paris with some friends of ours. When we first asked Mom for permission to go months earlier, she said no, end of subject. So we all arranged with our friends to alibi each other and set it up as a local camping trip, which was allowed. We spent plenty of time griping and whining about not being able to go to Paris, like we were trying to change her mind, because we knew if we didn’t mention it again it would be fishy.
“Carter was the youngest and had a habit of eavesdropping if he thought we were trying to keep shit from him. Which, of course we were, a lot of the time. There were times we didn’t want him tagging along. He wasn’t a narc or anything, but sometimes he was just too young to go with us for whatever reason.
“Somehow, and to this day I don’t know how, he knew we weren’t really going camping. And keep in mind hedespisedcamping. Which is the main reason we used that as our cover story, so he wouldn’t whine to come with us. Because Mom would have made us take him with us if he wanted to go.
“Motherfucker, the morning we’re packing to go, Mom says we need to take Carter with us. Gene and I expect Carter to beg not to go, right? And Mom would have let him stay. And damned if that little fucking shit doesn’t drop me and Gene a wink, cheer like he’s just hit the lottery, and run out to the garage to get his hiking pack and camping shit.”
I snort. “Then what?”
“We had to fucking go camping. And we didn’t even end up spending one night there because a storm started rolling in, so we headed home. It would have looked weird if we’d tried to tough it out.”
“How’d you get him back?”
“We didn’t. Our friends got busted on the way to Paris for speeding, and then arrested for having weed in the car. Back then, it wasn’t legal. Somehow, Carter had found out not only that we were going, but that some of the guys planned to bring weed with them, which they didn’t tell me and Gene they were going to do because they knew we wouldn’t go if that happened. Carter being an obnoxious little brother saved our fucking asses, and he never would tell us how he knew it. Pretended he didn’t know what we were talking about when we tried to figure out how he got the info.”
“That’s…spooky.” And totally the Carter I know and loved.
“Right?”
“So…now what?”
“Now you and I finalize the plan, and I’ll meet with Carter and go over things with him so he’s looped in.”
* * * *
And that’s exactly what happens. The night before, Jace leaves me at our rented condo—a short-term vacation rental under a different fake name—and heads out to meet up with Carter outside of Tallahassee. When he returns late that evening, he pulls me in for a long hug but won’t discuss the particulars of their conversation.
That night, when Jace makes love to me, it’s tender and gentle with just enough bite and pain to keep me grounded and present and distracted from what we’re both thinking.
That this could be the last time we have this together if we aren’t successful tomorrow night.
The next morning, neither of us speak as we go through our final preparations. We put everything in place four days ago, including backing the SUV into the rented house’s garage, so that hopefully its presence won’t raise any interest on any of the surveillance videos that might be reviewed by law enforcement later on.
When we leave the vacation rental, we drop the rental car at the storage unit and pick up another throwaway car purchased for cash under a fake name just over the state line in Georgia, with Georgia temp plates on it. That’s the car we drive to meet with Carter on the far east side of Tallahassee, at a busy shopping center parking lot there.
I sit in the back seat as the three of us silently head west again, to the rental property.
A dark, thick, borderline eager air fills the vehicle when we park in the driveway, on the same side where the SUV is parked in the garage.
When Cunningham arrives, he knows the garage door will open and he’s to park inside, to help conceal his car and to ensure enough parking spaces in the driveway for the “others” who will be attending the meeting.
His wife is out of town still, with the grandchildren. He knows not to tell her anything about tonight, that the potential donors are hella skittish and will bail on him to back other candidates if they even think he might be about to reveal their identities to anyone.
Again, this is nothing new to politicians.
The three of us await his arrival inside the house, which is perfectly staged. Roses, chilled champagne, lube and condoms. I snagged a woman’s long hair pulled from a hairbrush from the dumpster behind a hair salon several weeks ago. We’ve placed some of that in the trashcan in the master bathroom, along with a piece of toilet paper smeared with blotted lipstick, which matches a smear of lipstick on a glass in the sink. The bed in the master bedroom has been rumpled, and a used towel hangs in the bathroom.
We’re all wearing full Tyvek bunny suits over our clothes, which we donned in the garage, so we don’t leave any DNA in the house.
Carter stands watch. When he sees the car pull into the driveway exactly at seven p.m., with one occupant, he softly calls out to me. “Now.”
I hit the button on the clicker I hold where I stand next to the door leading out to the garage. We purchased it and programmed it to match the opener, because one didn’t come with the house rental, obviously.
