For the first time, I wanted to quit this job, this way of life. Flee and start a new life, one with purpose, like Andrew Marshall spoke of that morning in South Carolina. The shiny gloss of this life had worn away, leaving all the scratches and dents behind. But it isn’t a job where you turn in your two weeks’ notice. Not if I ever wanted to go back to being Lucca Marino and everything else that meant.
So I stayed. I kept taking the jobs he offered like I had an option to refuse them.
When I was sent to Louisiana and given the name Ryan Sumner, I thought I was prepared for the job ahead of me.
In theory, it’s easy to believe I could handle whatever he threw at me.
In reality, there was no way to prepare myself for what he did. Mr. Smith struck where it hurt the most.
It’s too late to run, so I need to see this through.
I finally arrive at my destination and find a spot to park. After I throw some quarters in the meter, I duck into a CVS to buy a prepaid phone, a single-dose pack of Advil, and a bottle of water. There’s a headache building behind my left eye that I need to get in front of. Leaning against the back of my car, I balance the phone against my shoulder once I hit send so I can use both hands to throw back two pills and chase them with water.
Devon answers on the second ring but doesn’t say a word in greeting.
“It’s me,” I say.
“Twenty-One C hotel in one hour. Coffee shop in the lobby.”
“Number?”
“Five fifteen.” And then he ends the call.
It’s a short drive to the hotel, and thankfully I find a parking spot around the corner from the front door. In addition to this being a hotel, 21C is also home to a museum, so the lobby is teeming with people and I’m forced to weave through the crowd, dodging rolling bags and swinging briefcases, until I get to the coffee shop that sits to the right of the main entrance. A huge banner hanging over the hall that leads to the convention rooms catches my attention.
Reelect Andrew Marshall—Promises Made, Promises Kept
I skip the long line for coffee and find a small table where I have a good view of the lobby.
Forty-five minutes later, a smile stretches across my face when I see Governor Andrew Marshall stride through the front door. There are quite a few people with him, two who I recognize from my short time in his employ. Early polls show he’ll win his reelection by a landslide, and his name is already being batted around as a potential presidential candidate.
I leave my jacket on the table, so no one takes my place, and walk toward them. He spots me when I’m about ten feet away, and I can see recognition dawn on his face even though I look different than I did six years ago.
He separates from his group and closes the distance between us.
“Mia?” he asks.
“Yes, Governor. It’s me.”
“How have you been?” he asks. I can tell he wants to reach out in some way, to hug me or shake my hand, but neither seems right under the circumstances, so he ends up shoving his hands in his pockets.
“I’m good. I’ve been following your career. I couldn’t be prouder.”
He shrugs. “I had some good advice early on that I believe has helped me tremendously.”
I take a deep breath and ask, “Can I speak to you a moment in private?”
One of his aides has materialized next to him. “I’m sorry, but Governor Marshall has a tight schedule. He’s due to speak at a luncheon in just a few minutes.” She has a hand on his arm and is trying to pull him away, but he stops her.
“Margaret, it’s fine. I have a few minutes.”
I gesture to the coffee shop and he follows me back to the table I saved. Once we’re both sitting, he asks, “Are you in trouble? Is that why you’re here?”
I give him a tentative smile. “Maybe a little. I’m okay. For now.”
Andrew leans forward, his elbows resting on the table, his voice dropping to an almost whisper. “I owe you and we both know it. What can I do to help?”
Shaking my head, I say, “I’m not ready to call that favor in yet, just needed to make sure it’s still on the table and you’re still willing to give it.”
We stare at each other while he tries to read me, but I’m giving nothing away. “If it is in my power to help you, I will.”
I nod, knowing this is the best I’m going to get from squeaky-clean Andrew Marshall. “That’s what I needed to hear. And now enough about me and my problems. How are you?”
He leans back in his chair, his eyes never leaving mine. “I’m good. Balancing the job and the reelection campaign, so it’s a busy time. But I have to ask, Mia, are you good? Happy?”