He stood in front of Lassiter headquarters, one gloved hand ready to push the revolving doors. He couldn’t make himself do it.
A gaggle of laughing campaign types swarmed ahead of him, young girls with Lassiter buttons on their puffy vests, one wearing a hat with two Lassiter buttons on wires, sticking out like political antennae. “Don’t forget to vote next week,” one girl called as she pushed against the door.
The door revolved and campaign headquarters swallowed them up, leaving Matt standing outside. He reviewed his plan, one more time. Go in. Maybe that Deenie person who’d told him about Springfield would help him. He’d find Owen. Go from there.
Besides, he was here with good news, right? He decided he would promise Owen-his father-he’d keep quiet about their relationship until Owen wanted to make it public. He wasn’t here to create problems. The way he’d dealt with Holly proved that, right? He wasn’t going to mention that, of course.
He would finally be Matthew Lassiter again. No longer left behind, no longer forgotten, no longer erased from his family. His mother, bitter and divisive, had moved them to Philadelphia and changed their names to Galbraith, but he was really Matthew Lassiter. And he was part of the solution.
He put his hand on the glass and metal door, ready to push through. Then he stopped.
Maybe he should-forget it. Go to one campaign event, get one close-up glimpse of his father, call it even. Maybe now wasn’t the right time to show himself. Election day looming, a tight race, maybe Matt’s very existence would ruin it all, and where would that leave their relationship? Someday they’d meet properly. Someday his father would accept him. Treat him as a real son.
He patted his pockets, wishing for cigarettes. Instead, he felt Holly’s car keys. And the paper with Jane Ryland’s phone number. Reminding him of what happened.
With that, Matt straightened his shoulders, pushed on the metal bar, and stepped inside as the glass door began to turn. Turning point, this is what they mean by that.
The fluorescent lights in the headquarters lobby glinted on the polished marble floors; march music blared through unseen speakers; red, white, and blue bunting draped across the ceiling and looped down the walls. Huge posters of Owen and Moira Lassiter lined one side of the lobby. But it was the front desk that commanded Matt’s attention.
The woman at the front desk was not Deenie Bayliss.
He stared. Felt his heart threaten to break through his chest. Felt every memory of every year of his life and every year of his loss flood back over him, swallow him, suffocate him, overwhelm him.
His lips went dry; he knew his voice would never work.
What was she doing here?
He took a step closer, put both palms on the reception desk. Tried to think of what to say.
“Cissy?” He heard his voice rasp, didn’t sound like himself.
The woman lifted her head.
She had her mother’s eyes. Same as his.
“Hello, Cissy,” he croaked again.
The woman stood slowly, not taking those eyes off him. “No,” she said. “No.”
“Yes,” Matt said. “But-”
She ripped off the telephone headset, put her hands to her mouth, scanning the room. They were alone. She darted from behind the desk, clutched Matt’s arm with a vise of manicured fingers, hissed into his ear.
“You idiot. Get out of here.”
She pulled him through the lobby, stumbling once in her high heels, pushed him into the revolving door, herself right behind him, the door moving fast, spilling them onto the sidewalk. He still towered over her.
She jabbed a forefinger into his chest. Her eyes narrowed; spots of color flamed her cheekbones. “Get out of here. Now. Leave. Oh, my god, you’ll spoil everything. What in hell are you doing here?” She turned away, as if to go back inside, then whirled to face him. “No. I don’t even want to know. Just-go. You didn’t see me, you don’t know me. Good-bye.”
“Five minutes.” He grabbed her arm, thin under the soft black sweater, stopping her. “That’s all. We have to talk. You need to know that-”
She rolled her eyes. “I don’t need to know anything.”
But she let him draw her into a little alleyway next to the building, into a shadow, out of sight. Cissy needed to know about Holly Neff. What he’d done. Everything. Holly’s plan. It was just as dangerously destructive to his little sister as it was to Owen. Cissy needed to know they were all in it together. A family again. Their father just didn’t know it yet.
With a start, Matt realized what he needed to know.
“Hey,” he said. He didn’t let go of Cissy’s arm. “What are you doing here?”
“See, Jakey? I told you. She’s not there. She’s supposed to be at the front desk, and she’s not. Look,” Jane whispered, pointing at the window fronting Lassiter headquarters. The Register’s lawyers had insisted Jane call the police with what she knew about Kenna Wilkes. She and Alex had protested, a united front, arguing about breaking news, headlines, and the separation of journalists and law enforcement. Alex had been terrific, supportive, genuinely on her side. Still, they’d lost. And now she was in a position she shouldn’t be in-cooperating with the cops. Making a deal.
With Jake.
Quid pro quo. They’d reveal the identity of Kenna Wilkes, the newest murder victim; the police would give them the exclusive. Not the most desirable situation, but the cards had been dealt. It was a great story, that was for sure, and gave her massive brownie points at the paper. And getting such a good lead on the case might make Jake look good to his superiors. She was the one helping him now. It evened the score.
“So did you call?” Jake peered through the window, cupping his hands along each side of his face to block the light.
“I wanted to. But Alex insisted we come check it out in person. I guess he’s right. Better to gauge the reactions face-to-face.”
“Pretty empty in there,” Jake said. “Guess everyone’s still at lunch. Interesting, though. We know Kenna Wilkes must be a fake name.”
“Yeah.” Shoulder almost touching Jake’s, Jane put her face close to the window, wanting to see inside again for herself. “She pretended to be registered to vote. She was hiding something, that’s for sure. So either she was fooling the heck out of everyone here at Lassiter headquarters-or they’re complicit in whatever she was up to.”
“Or both,” Jake said, turning to her. “Could be her intentions wound up making her some enemies.”
“Which means-you think someone in the Lassiter campaign killed her?”
“That’s what we’re here to find out, right?”
“I love it when you talk cop. Shall we get this show on the road?” Jane smiled, bursting with excitement at what was about to unfold. It was sad, of course. Someone was dead. But in journalism and in law enforcement, you couldn’t ignore the satisfaction of getting to say, case closed. “I can’t believe we’re working on a story together.”
“I could get used to it if you can, Janey. Maybe we could arrange a little after-hours research-”
“Jake, you read me?” DeLuca’s voice crackled over the two-way.
“Loud and clear,” Jake said. He shrugged at Jane. “Two seconds.”