CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
MUFFIN SHOULD HAVE called Rick on the house phone, just for the satisfaction of being able to slam down the receiver. Instead, she ended the call and threw the burner cell against the brick fireplace where it gave an almost-satisfying crack.
“Those idiots.”
Rick’s team had done well for her in the past. They’d never failed her. Why was this one couple so hardto kill?
Muffin would take them out with her bare fucking hands if the risk weren’t so high. She’d killed once, she could do it again.
She normally devised and executed plans to protect her husband’s career with the precision of a sniper, and a grasp of strategy that would make a general proud, directing the operations from afar, often through a cutout like Rick. But things with the reporterhad not gone according to plan. Not to plan Aorplan B. With Fitz so close to the culmination of decades of work—mostlyherefforts to keep him from sabotaging his own success with his mistresses and shady business partners—Muffin couldn’t have allowed one dogged reporter to destroy her chance at having the most powerful husband in the world.
Something had snapped within her and she’d lostall control, unleashing the animal that always prowled beneath the surface of her carefully crafted, always poised, expensively clad exterior.
Threat eliminated.
At first, she’d felt sick, disoriented and jittery, but then the appointment reminder had popped up on Annette’s phone. Using the dead woman’s finger to unlock the phone, Muffin had changed the PIN—faster than trying to update thefingerprints—and sent a quick text message to Tara to cancel the meeting. Then she’d stuffed Annette Collier’s phone into her own purse before running out the door.
And tripped right over Tara fucking Fujimoto. Another unexpected development that could’ve easily been eliminated on the spot if Muffin had been thinking more clearly. She’d had plenty of time to Monday-morning-quarterback her choicesand come up with better options. She could have led Tara into the house and killed her there, further confusing the police. Or—if there hadn’t been the potential for witnesses on the street—just slammed Tara’s head into the ground and blamed it on the fall.
Unfortunately, she hadn’t done either of those, and now she was paying for it. The news about Fitz’s potential candidacy had leaked evenearlier than Muffin had anticipated, forcing them to bump up the announcement in Jacksonville to tonight. Once Tara found out, she was sure to understand why she’d become a target.
Muffin had been wearing gloves inside Annette’s house, but in her frazzled state, trying not to make Tara suspicious, she’d removed her gloves to check that the phone still worked and forgotten to put them back on.Which meant she might have left fingerprints on the items she’d helped Tara collect for her purse. And Muffin didn’t have the same well-placed contacts in Virginia that she did in North Carolina. It took time to compromise police officers and public officials. She needed Tara and the evidence gone, before the bitch understood what she’d walked into and went to the cops.
But Muffin couldn’t counton Rick to get the job done anymore.
If she were honest, the idea of confronting Tara herself brought a rush. She’d worked too hard and suffered too long to give up now. Nothing and no one would get in her way. Not inquisitive reporters, and certainly not one little slut who considered herself some kind of crusader.
Serendipity had put Muffin less than sixty miles from her target, just intime to take care of loose ends before Fitz’s speech. She would squash Tara Fujimoto beneath her Manolos like a bug and get back to the business of becoming the First Lady.
Jeff recognized the smell first. Piss, bleach, and bad food. His lip curled. He was in the hospital.
The events in the RV flooded back and he sat up, blinking against the bright fluorescents overhead.
Pain shot throughhis head, turning his stomach. He gripped the edges of the bed and closed his eyes until the blaze in his skull faded to a dull throb. At least his hands were free. Rotating his wrists one at a time, he took deep breaths and kept his head lowered as he slowly raised his eyelids.
He was in a small hospital room, all alone, still in his street clothes. He patted his pockets but didn’t feel hiscell phone. He needed to contact Tara, make sure she was okay. And his dad. Poor guy was probably either pissed or worried or both, wondering where the hell Jeff had gone and why.
The door opened and a short, thirty-something woman with light brown hair twisted back from her round face walked in wearing scrubs and a lab coat.
“Hi, Mr. Patarava. I’m glad to see you’re awake,” she said, smilingas she approached the bed. “I’m Dr. Nacouzi. How are you feeling?”
He tried to respond, cleared his throat, and tried again. “Bit of a headache,” he managed. At least his tongue worked.
She clucked. “More than a bit, I’d guess.”
“Yeah.” He rubbed the bump on the crown of his head, wincing. Shit. “How long have I been out?”
Removing a penlight from her pocket, she said, “Let me take a look.”She shone the light in each eye. “According to the paramedics who brought you in, about thirty minutes.”
“Where’s Tara?”
Her brows snapped together. “Is that your wife?”
Not yet. If ever. “No. My…friend. She was with me in the, uh, accident.” How much did this woman know?
“Sorry, I don’t know. Therearea couple of police officers here who’d like to talk to you, though. Probably aboutthe men who came in at the same time.” Her right brow lifted. “I’ve told them they need to wait until we’re done here. You’ve suffered a concussion and what your brain really needs right now is rest, so don’t let them push you too hard.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Maybe the cops could tell him where to find Tara.
