Page 65 of Reveal

“Considering I’m a candidate, shouldn’t I be in the know on what’s going on?”

“As I said, some things aren’t up for discussion. I can’t override orders from the bosses.” Her mouth straightens into a line, and her eyebrows lift as if to ask if we’re done here.

What does she know? What the hell happened? What the hell is going on here?

And then in the midst of panic, it hits me: Carter Preston.

His warning. His threat.

Oh my God.

Did he do something? I clasp my hands together to prevent the rage I suddenly feel from shining through.

“Priscilla.” I pause and force myself to contain my emotions. It’s been a long few weeks—hell, it’s been a long damn year—and before I ruin all chances of being awarded custody, I take a deep breath. “I’m not quite sure what is going on here, but I know it’s not normal. You have a little girl dying to be loved and put in a home where she can be loved unconditionally. Whatever it is that you seem to think you have against me, I assure you it can be explained.” I hold her gaze and tamp down my anger, forcing my hands to relax instead of fist.

Time stretches, and defeat hits me harder than ever before.

“Running a brothel out of your house now, are you?”

Every single ounce of blood drains from my body in an instant. “Excuse me?” I sputter out the words, the room suddenly sweltering, my head dizzy.

She lifts an eyebrow. “Four men in one night, Ms. Sanders? Is this a suitable environment for a young, impressionable girl with special needs?”

I must blink a hundred times as I try to process what it is that she’s saying. “I’m—I’m sorry. I don’t think I understand what you’re talking about?”

My heartbeat rages in my ears. My breath hurts to draw it in.

“Well, let’s see. It’s been reported that you went to a charity event with one gentleman. Then you have a male babysitter who didn’t leave your house until the wee hours of the morning. Two different cars sat in front of your house at different times, stayed there for a while, and then parted ways.” She leans back in her chair and crosses her arms over her chest. “A revolving door? Is this really a suitable environment for Lucy?”

Each word she utters makes my jaw want to drop a little farther open, and when she’s finished, my laugh rings out loud and clear in the stuffy conference room. I can hear the hysteria in it bouncing back to me; I just hope she doesn’t hear it too.

“This is absolutely ludicrous.”

“Is it?”

“I’m sorry, but were you having me followed?”

“A concerned citizen took it upon themselves to call this suspicious activity in.”

“A concerned citizen?” Another disbelieving laugh falls from my lips. “At two in the morning a concerned citizen just happened to be watching my house. One who somehow knew my personal business and that I was in the process of trying to adopt my niece?” With each word my voice rises, and my mind zeroes in on the only person who could have done this.

“Perhaps.”

“And what? You just believe a random stranger who happened to see something and read into it?”

“I haven’t heard you deny it.”

“Are you actually accusing me of being a madam?” I shriek, the irony so lost in my rage of emotion that I don’t even notice. Because even though that’s my job, I never really think of myself that way. “Are you kidding me?”

I shove my chair back and begin to pace whatever part of the room that I can.

“Ms. Sanders. Now, I assure you my comment was in gest, but it does lead one to question what was going on at your—”

“Nothing! Nothing was going on. My friend—who’s gay—invited me to a charity event for the Down Syndrome Advocacy Foundation. His name is Archer Collins. Feel free to look him up and accuse him of buying sex in my house. He’ll sue you faster than you can look up his net worth, and you’ll be laughed out of your job. The man I’m dating stopped by for a bit to wait for me afterward, but I wasn’t home. His name is Ryker Lockhart. I’m sure you can Google him and see he’s not exactly a man who has to pay for sex. Lawyers aren’t in the habit of breaking the law. My babysitter is just that—a babysitter. He stayed late and left when I got home. And . . . the last person?” I scramble for an answer that stays as far away from the senator as possible but won’t make her worried for Lucy. “He was a coworker from Apropos—you know, the club where I work. A group of people were going out partying—hence the limo, to avoid drinking and driving—and they stopped by to see if I wanted to go with them. Are you happy now? No sex. No drugs. But sometimes there’s a little bit of rock and roll.”

My hands are pressed against the table, my body leaning forward so she has no choice but to see the gravity and anger heavy in my expression.

“Thank you for the explanation”—she clears her throat—“but I can’t exactly take your words at face value.”