The Saint (Notorious 3)

Amanda stared at me as if I was something wiggling under a microscope.

“What?”

“Sometimes,” she said, “you look like a different person. You get this expression and it’s like I’ve never seen you before.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Amanda.”

“I’m not. I’m telling you, the mask you wear every damn day slips and the guy underneath it freaks me out a little bit.”

I sighed. “What are we going to do about Zoe Madison?”

“The pregnant lady?” She waved a hand. “I can fix that. I can fix that in my sleep. What’s got me worried is what’s happening with your family. The postponement of your father’s arraignment is hurting us in public opinion. And you didn’t tell me you testified for your mother ten years ago in a criminal case.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, picking up the papers and dumping them in the recycling beside Amanda’s desk.

“Worrying about it is kind of my job, Carter. I need an answer when those questions start coming up again, and they will if you’re going to announce your candidacy for mayor after Christmas.”

The sentence hung there, unanswered.

I was going to do that. That was the plan. The goal.

Yesterday, before my mother’s resurfacing, it seemed like the fruition of years of hard work. The only likely outcome for my life.

Today, it seemed ridiculous. Announcing my candidacy for mayor while my father went to jail, my mother was snooping around in the shadows, and there was a missing ruby kicking around somewhere?

“That is still the plan, right?” Amanda asked.

“Yes,” I said, because I still wanted it.

“Then don’t put your head in the sand. We need a strategy and I need the truth.”

“Our strategy,” I said in a tone designed to remind her that she worked for me, “is that you say ‘no comment.’”

“The public—”

“The attention will die down. It always does. We just need to stay the course.”

“Stay the course?” She watched me dubiously. “This can’t be you talking.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you haven’t backed down from a fight once since taking this office. And now you want to stay the course? You think that’s gonna work?”

“When it stops, if it stops working, we’ll come up with a new strategy.”

Amanda blew out a long breath, said, “You’re the boss,” and leaned back in her chair, kicking her feet up on the desk. “Now,” she said, her eyes alight, “about Zoe Madison. We’ve got three choices. We can issue a statement saying you’ve never seen the girl and you are not the father.”

“Will that work?”

“In time, but in that time, Blackwell’s going to be going through your family’s dirty laundry, of which there seems to be plenty. And sure, we can fight for some retractions, but it’ll be like fighting a forest fire with a squirt gun.”

“We need a distraction.”

“Exactly. We can dig up a whole bunch of dirt and annihilate her in the press.”

“Annihilate?”

“But she’s practically picture-perfect. If we go after her, it’ll make us look like baby kitten killers.”

“Okay, what’s our second choice?” I asked, sorry to see annihilation off the table.

“Well, I’ve got an idea, and frankly it should take the heat off your shady family.”

“Good,” I said, ready for anything.

“Don’t be too eager,” she said. “This might hurt a little.” There was something about Amanda’s smile that made me nervous.

Very nervous.

ZOE

The pregnancy cravings were not to be messed with.

They were primitive and so strong they could last for days, taking me places no sane woman should go.

I’d learned that the hard way in month three when I’d left the house in need of ice cream and had systematically torn the head off every person that had crossed my path. I’d made a four-year-old cry for accidentally riding her bike over my foot.

A four-year-old! I was going to be a great mother.

Now, I stayed home and rode the cravings out like I was tied to the saddle of a runaway horse. Or I called in reinforcements.

“You sure you’re all right?” Mom asked, wrapping one of my scarves around her neck. “That thing in the paper—”

“A huge misunderstanding, Mom,” I said, lying through my teeth. My picture in the paper this morning had been a shocker, and that little trickle of guilt I’d been ignoring all night had turned into a geyser. I was on the front page of the paper and the story made it seem as though Carter O’Neill was one step down from an axe murderer.

Deputy Deadbeat Daddy. It was awful.

Well, some cold, no-nonsense voice in my head whispered, what did you expect, standing on a chair like that?

“The mayor’s office will handle it, I’m sure,” I insisted, wanting my mother out of the house with such force it was hard not to just open the door and stand there, waiting for her to get the hint.

But Mom had brought salsa.

So I was trying to be polite.