“No.”
“Ready for the head?” Kennedy’s voice was gentle, little more than a whisper.
She nodded and Kennedy gingerly pulled up the shirt. She ducked her head to help and winced as new pain resonated through her shoulder.
“Coping?” Kennedy asked.
“You’re good at this.”
“I hope you continue to think so after we’re done with the other arm.”
“Give me a moment.” Ryden backed up, nauseated from the pain, and held on to the sink. “I don’t understand why it hurts so much all of a sudden.”
“Because you’re tired and the adrenaline high is gone.”
“I guess.” She looked down at her half-exposed body. Why had she chosen to wear such a sheer, lacy, black bra? It left nothing to the imagination. Kennedy, she noticed, was staring at her chest, too. Her cheeks burned. “I…I um…”
“You didn’t seem shy about seducing me,” Kennedy said.
“I didn’t…”
“Oh, that’s right. You were in character.”
“It was never part of any plan to seduce you.” Dealing with the pain in her shoulder was bad enough. She didn’t need Kennedy aggravating her already fragile state. “I told you then and I’m telling you again, I have never been interested in women and wouldn’t even know where to start seducing one.”
“Which only amplifies my sentiment. You don’t expect me to accept the fact that a forty-something straight woman playing the role of the president suddenly decided to experiment.”
“It wasn’t a choice, and I was definitely not conducting any kind of sexuality research.”
“Whatever you say,” Kennedy replied flippantly, and turned her face away.
Ryden’s cheeks flushed like they always did when she got angry. She let go of the sink for a moment, forgetting about her pain. “What do you find hard to comprehend? The fact that I wanted you to kiss me or that I actually did?”
“You were drunk.”
“Tipsy. I knew damn well what I was doing, and I didn’t do it because of any ulterior motivation.” She closed the foot of distance between them. “What gain would I have from seducing you? You have nothing I want.”
“Nothing?” Kennedy asked arrogantly. “Not even the comfort my money can buy, for a new life far away from the people who hired you? Away from a career in flower arrangements?”
Her belittling tone exacerbated Ryden’s growing anger. She pushed Kennedy away. “How dare you accuse me of—”
“Using me for a better life?” For the first time Kennedy lost her cool demeanor. “Isn’t that why you agreed to this plan? For money and a new beginning?”
“They framed me,” Ryden shouted. The T-shirt dangling from her shoulder aggravated her even more so she pulled it off. “How many times do I have to tell you?”
Kennedy arched her brow. “And how convenient that a florist in a dead-end job, making what—twenty thousand a year?—finally gets some cash to pimp herself and her life.”
Ryden almost gasped. Sure, the idea of a second chance at a new life had been exciting, but she had agreed before they ever told her the terms, and by that time it was too late to change her mind. Even then, she would have accepted the offer anyway if it meant surviving. “For your information, my life was just fine before they took everything away. I loved my job as a florist, my candle making, and my tiny home. And yes, the death penalty would’ve put a glitch in my humble but otherwise satisfying life, so I accepted. You have no right to belittle my life or blame me for what I did, when all I’m guilty of is choosing to live.” She took a deep breath.
“All you needed was some adrenaline.” Kennedy looked at her shoulder, then bent to pick up the bloodied shirt. After handing it to her, Kennedy took the first-aid kit and went back into the living room.
Ryden stomped after her, the pain in her shoulder mostly forgotten in her growing anger. “I suppose it’s easy for you to stand there, acting all righteous, when you’ve never had to decide between life or death.”
Kennedy took a seat on the couch. “I make that call every time I throw myself in front of a bullet to save someone’s life.”
“Because it’s your job,” Ryden yelled, standing in front of her, trying to cover her nakedness with the soiled shirt. “I doubt you do it because you value a stranger’s life more than your own or because you have a death wish.”
“I do it because…” Kennedy looked away. “Because I don’t have a choice,” she mumbled.
“And that’s how I felt.”
Kennedy looked at her with sadness. “I never had a choice. It was made for me.”
“When your organization adopted you.”
Kennedy nodded.
“I guess orphanages and foster homes do that to a person.”
“Do what?”
“Make them feel they should accept anything, out of gratitude for being selected and given a chance. I should know.”
“What do you mean?” Kennedy asked.
“For years I was sent from home to home, trying to please whoever with the hope of being allowed to stay. I guess I wasn’t good enough, not pretty enough, or who knows what the hell. Point is, I spent my life trying to please others just to make them love or at least care.”
Kennedy was silent for a long while. “Let me take a look at your shoulder,” she finally said.
*
Southwestern Colorado
Monty was closing the blinds to the conference room when David Arthur joined them, soaked to the skin from the thunderstorm raging outside. Joanne was already seated at the big table.
“What’s Reno got?” Arthur asked.
“We’ll find out soon enough,” Monty replied, “but I could tell from his tone he’s found something significant.” Reno had summoned them for this predawn briefing; he’d been working nonstop since Shield’s call to find out more about Theodora Rothschild and how she was connected to TQ.
“I hate this waiting around,” Joanne said. “Every minute that goes by, Jaclyn is—”
Reno rushed in, his laptop in one hand and computer printouts in the other. “We’ll find her,” he said with confidence, “now that TQ’s no longer a ghost.”
They all took seats at one end of the conference table.
“The headline is, TQ and Theodora Rothschild are one and the same,” Reno said as he passed printouts to each of them.
Monty scanned his. On top was a color passport photo of an attractive, middle-aged woman with white hair and eyes devoid of warmth or emotion. Beneath it was a birth certificate.
“Rothschild is her married name,” Reno said. “She was born Theodora Quinevere Lassiter on March 29, 1962, according to her birth certificate. That’s the same day as the faked date of death registered for Dario’s sibling. The city matches, too—Wichita, Kansas. Parents of record are a Howard and Ellen Lassiter. He’s deceased, and she’s in a nursing home with Alzheimer’s, so no help there. I wasn’t able to find any connection between the Lassiters and Imperis, but they lived only a few blocks away from each other, so they may have known each other through a common church or school or something.”
Monty scanned the next printout as Reno’s briefing continued.
“Theodora Lassiter married Philip Victor Nathaniel Rothschild, heir to the British banking branch of the noble family, in 1982. A year later, Philip founded the Rothschild Auction Houses in Houston, but he didn’t get much of a chance to enjoy it. He was found dead in his bed by their maid six months later, while his wife was away on a spa vacation. They performed an autopsy since he was only forty, but the results were inconclusive.”
Reno picked up the computer sheet. “Theodora—TQ—took over the auction houses, which last year reported a net income to the IRS of forty-two million dollars. She never remarried, keeps a very low profile, and is rarely photographed. Her home address is a penthouse in Houston, but she also has an office in D.C. The addresses of both are listed at the bottom of page four in your handout.”