Suddenly, the throng parted, and she saw the judge coming toward her, looking like a movie star in that white tuxedo. Their eyes met.
“Martin,” Madison mouthed, shrugging.
The judge continued walking, looking straight ahead like they’d never met.
Okay.
She was heading for the exit when she spotted her quarry at the bar. Mobbed earlier in the evening, it was now empty except for the bartender and one patron—Andrew Martin. She abandoned her champagne glass in a potted palm and approached him. Busy checking his phone as the bartender mixed him a drink, he didn’t notice her. She was supposed to identify herself as Judge Conroy’s intern and ask for a private meeting later that night in an alley not far from the judge’s house. She worried that would not go over well. No matter how impressive she looked in her finery, she was a stranger to him. And he had the sort of job that made him a target. He could perceive it as a threat. Worse, it might actually be a threat. She wanted to believe that Conroy was a victim. But she had new doubts after witnessing Kessler’s reaction. She couldn’t be sure whether the judge herself planned to show up to that alley. Or, whether it would be Wallace and his gun.
What if they were putting her in the middle of an assassination plot?
The lights flashed, like in a theater, herding the attendees to their tables. Still, Martin hadn’t turned around. She’d just made up her mind to leave without speaking to him when he suddenly turned, drink in hand, and nearly crashed into her.
“Excuse me,” he said.
Then he looked at her, and his expression transitioned from recognition to shock in the space of a second. Andrew Martin knew who she was. And that was not a good thing.
“Miss Rivera. I’m surprised to see you here. You have something to say to me?”
She was struck speechless, her mind filling up with an image of a room in the U.S. Attorney’s Office, windowless, full of evidence boxes, with an enormous bulletin board featuring photos of the suspects. Judge Conroy’s picture was in the center, with pieces of string stretching between her and the co-conspirators: Wallace, Logue. And Madison.
His eyes scanned the room, alert for threats.
“You’re afraid. And for good reason. We shouldn’t talk here. Call my office,” he said, and walked away.
23
Madison fled the MFA like she’d seen a ghost, with Martin’s words echoing in her ears. You’re afraid. And for good reason. Did that mean she should fear arrest? Or something worse?
The Huntington Avenue T station was above ground, right across from the museum. A train pulled up and opened its doors, beckoning her to escape. She ran for it, barreling into the empty car and collapsing into a seat. With shaking fingers, she pulled out her phone and deleted Andrew Martin’s photo. Having it in her possession felt dirty and incriminating, like—yes—a bag of drugs. She wanted it gone. She looked over her shoulder to make sure that Martin hadn’t followed her. There was no sign of him.
But just then a pale man with red hair stepped into the halo cast by a streetlamp. Lighting a cigarette, he looked up, deliberately making eye contact with her.
Wallace.
Her stomach plummeted. As the tone sounded indicating the doors were closing, he took a deep drag, tossed down the cigarette, and boarded a car somewhere behind her. She got up to run. But it was too late. The doors had shut.
Maybe that’s what Martin meant. She was right to be afraid, because Wallace was coming for her. Fuck. Where could she go to get away from him? Not back to Judge Conroy’s town house while the judge was still at the party. The place would be dark and empty, nobody there but the cat. She couldn’t go home to Mom, obviously. That would put her at risk. The only option was her dorm. There were lots of people around. If she could make it there, she’d be safe.
The doors opened at Park Street. She took off for the Red Line like she was running for her life. The thunk-thunk of footsteps behind her must be him. The stilettos she’d borrowed from the judge were slowing her down, and he gained on her through the maze of tunnels—narrow, low-ceilinged, lined with blood-red tile like something from a house of horrors. Thank God she wasn’t alone. A train had just let out, and a number of people passed by. It sat on the platform, exhaling stale air, growling. She plunged through the doors and collapsed into an empty seat. As the train pulled out of the station, her eyes darted nervously. He hadn’t made it into this car, but he could be in the next one.
At the Mass General stop, most of the passengers exited. The train picked up speed and passed under the Charles. It was dark outside the windows, and she felt trapped. There were only two other people in her car, and they were glued to their phones, unlikely to help if he came for her. There weren’t even doors between the cars to give her a false sense of security. Three more stops to Harvard Square. She got up and stood by the doors, her hand sweaty on the strap as the car bucked and swayed. When the doors opened at Harvard Square, she ran. Up a ramp, through the turnstiles, up one escalator, then another, not looking back until she hit the misty, diesel-smelling night.