As I clicked at my keyboard, my stomach jittered. What if it had been deleted? Or what if someone else had come across Sean’s letter and modified it? I eyed Bucky, who I discovered was eyeing me back. It would be just like him to think he was funny by messing with my stuff-and I remembered Sean’s concerns about Bucky being annoyed with him for accessing my computer.
My head pounded with worry and potential embarrassment as I pulled up a list of recent documents. Even as I rationalized that a true copy still existed-with Gav-I worried that this one would be gone and I’d be the laughingstock once again. After the bomb incident-the bomb that everyone believed was fake, but I knew to be real-even I thought I was starting to sound like Chicken Little.
“Come on,” I whispered, urging the computer to move faster. I double-clicked on the file, exasperated when I was rewarded by the little hourglass that warned me to wait.
The computer made that unwelcome and not-very-nice sound when it can’t find what it’s looking for.
“No,” I said, softly.
Cyan broke away from the First Lady. “Are you looking for what I think you’re looking for?”
Her eyes today were amber brown. I stared into them. “It’s not here.”
“Hang on.” She leaned in to where I was working and commandeered the mouse. She double-clicked on a file titled “YEO” and then typed in a password when prompted. Winking at me, she whispered, “Buckminster.” Bucky’s full name. Good choice, I thought.
A split second later, Sean’s document was on the screen.
“There,” she said.
Amazed by her foresight, I thanked her. “YEO?” I asked.
“Stands for ‘Your Eyes Only.’ In my culinary school, students were always trying to steal one another’s ideas. I learned to password-protect early.” With a shrug, she started back toward the counter, but leaned forward to add, “I thought this one was worth protecting.”
“You’re good,” I said, clicking the command to print.
“Just watching your back.”
Mrs. Campbell continued talking with the other chefs as I pulled Sean’s letter from the printer. When I had it in hand, she turned to me. “A moment, Ollie?”
We walked out across the Center Hall into the Map Room, where Mrs. Campbell read the letter. I would have preferred to allow her to read it by herself, but she asked me to stay when I offered to give her privacy.
When she looked up, her eyes were shining. “Thank you,” she said. “I know just what to do with this.”
“You know that Gav has a copy, too?”
She smiled. “I’m certain he’s doing the best he can. But one of the benefits of my position is that it allows me to cut through red tape when I need to. You have done me a great favor, Ollie. And you’ve done the president a great favor as well.”
I felt myself blush.
“I know you have a lot to do, so I won’t keep you longer, but I want you to know that my husband and I appreciate all you do for us.” She looked down at the letter, then up at me. “Today… and every day.”
ON MY RIDE HOME, I STAYED HYPER-ALERT FOR any sign that I was being followed-any hint that people were out to get me. Today’s stand-down on the reception, however, meant that our work load lessened and my commute home was at a more busy time than when I’d been attacked. It was getting dark, but it wasn’t terribly late. There were people everywhere-and so many on the Metro that I had to stand for part of the trip. I didn’t mind. Oblivious humanity provided a degree of comfort.
I reached into my replacement purse and smiled. How appropriate, I thought-the chef carrying pepper spray to defend herself. After my last altercation, I realized I needed to take a more proactive approach to guarding my safety.
I had to admit that I didn’t expect to be attacked again, but what I really didn’t expect was a reporter outside my apartment building. I didn’t realize at first that the woman sitting alone in an idling Honda Civic was waiting for me.
“Olivia Paras?” the woman asked too eagerly as she alighted.
My stomach squeezed. What now? There were so many things going on-the two recent deaths, the fake bomb, the real bomb, the cancelation of today’s event at the White House-that I couldn’t begin to guess what this lady wanted to talk with me about.
I tried getting past her but she stepped in front of me. She spoke into a handheld microphone that appeared to be connected to a recorder on the hip of her fur coat. “Olivia Paras, you’re the White House executive chef…”
Tell me something I don’t know.
“What can you tell us about tomorrow’s dinner?”
She shoved the microphone at me. I blanked. “Dinner?”
“We understand that the First Lady is meeting with Nicholas Volkov.”
As she said Volkov’s name, she widened her eyes and slowed her speech, giving the name additional weight.
The microphone popped in front of me again. “I’m sorry. I’m going in now.” I pointed up toward my floor. “And I’m cold.”
“But don’t you think the American public deserves to know if the First Lady is planning to meet with an accused murderer?”
My jaw dropped. I started to say, “What?” then thought better of it. Although I wanted to ask a million questions, I said, “I have nothing to say.”
The reporter’s shoulders drooped. “Ms. Paras, please,” she said, her voice quietly entreating. “My name is Kirsten Zarzycki. I’m with Channel Seven News. May I call you Livvie?”
Livvie? My reaction must have shown, because she started to apologize. “Channel Seven?” I said, my eyes raking the Honda behind her. “I-”
“You’ve never seen me. I’m new,” she said. “But I’ve been looking into all this for a while now and I think I’m onto something.” She lifted one shoulder. “I can’t get clearance to talk to any of the big shots involved, but I thought that maybe, since you’re planning the dinner, you might have some insight into what’s going on there.”
I rubbed my forehead and stared at this girl. Kirsten Zarzycki was younger than I was, by at least five years, and taller than me by at least five inches. Blonde, eager, and looking as though the high-rise pumps she wore were squeezing her feet, she pleaded, with both her eyes and her words.
“Listen, I’m trying to make a name for myself here,” she said. “You’ve got to be able to share something with me.” Now both shoulders shrugged and I wondered how many innocent foxes gave their lives for her protection against the night’s chill.
“I don’t have anything, and even if I did…” My mind raced. Volkov accused of murder? Could he have been the one who-
“That’s it,” she said, the excitement in her voice pushing it up an octave. “I see it in your face. You do know something. I know you do. You just might not realize how much you know. Come on,” she said, blinking rapidly. “You’re where you want to be in this world. Can’t you give a hand up?”
Plying me with almost the same argument Bindy had, she blinked again. I wondered if this tactic worked to better effect on men. I hoped not.
“Sorry,” I said, starting for my front door. My woolen coat was no match for the cold air, although little Miss High Heels seemed toasty in her fur.
“What about Zendy Industries?” she asked, desperation shooting her voice even higher. “I hear that Mrs. Campbell refuses to sell out. But does she realize how much Volkov’s involvement will hurt her investment?”
“Mrs. Campbell’s investments are none of my business.” I smiled. “Nor are they yours.”
She called after me. “Don’t you think this makes Mrs. Campbell a target now?”
I turned to face her. Anticipation sparked Kirsten’s eyes.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I’ve been doing some research into Zendy,” she said. “I’m trying hard to make this into a story. But nobody seems to care.”