Mirror Image

It made her nauseated with fear to know that a killer was in the hotel, under the same roof as Tate and Mandy.

And where was Fancy? She had been gone for hours. Had something happened to her, too? If not, why hadn’t she at least phoned to explain her delay? Even with Election Day traffic, the round trip to the post office shouldn’t have taken much longer than an hour.

“Tate, one of the networks just called the thing in your favor!” Eddy announced as he came barreling through the door. “Ready to go downstairs?”

Avery whirled toward Tate, holding her breath in anticipation of his answer. “No,” he said. “Not until it’s beyond a shadow of a doubt. Not until Dekker calls and concedes.”

“At least go change your clothes.”

“What’s wrong with these clothes?”

“You’re going to fight me on that to the bitter end, aren’t you?”

“Till the bitter end,” Tate replied, laughing.

“If you win, I won’t even care.”

Nelson walked over to Tate and shook his hand. “You did it. You accomplished everything I expected of you.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Tate said a bit shakily. “But let’s not count our chickens yet.” Zee hugged him against her petite frame.

“Bravo, little brother,” Jack said, lightly slapping Tate on the cheek. “Think we ought to try for the White House next?”

“I couldn’t have done anything without you, Jack.”

Dorothy Rae pulled Tate down and kissed him. “It’s good of you to say that, Tate.”

“I give credit where credit’s due.” He stared at Avery over their heads. His expression silently declared just how wrong she had been. He was surrounded by people who loved him. She was the only deceiver.

The door opened again. She spun around, hoping to see Fancy. It was one of the volun

teers. “Everything’s all set in the ballroom. The crowd’s chanting for Tate and the band’s playing. God, it’s great!”

“I say it’s time to break out the champagne,” Nelson said.

When the first cork was popped, Avery nearly jumped out of her skin.

* * *

John’s arm grazed Fancy’s breast. She moved away. His thigh rubbed hers. She recrossed her legs. His predictable passes were getting tiresome. She wasn’t in the mood. The drinks no longer tasted good. This wasn’t as much fun as it used to be.

I thought we were friends.

Carole’s voice seemed to speak to her above Rod Stewart’s overamplified, hoarse sexiness and the din the happy hour imbibers were creating.

Carole had treated her decently in the last few months—in fact, since she’d come home from the hospital. Some of the things she’d said about self-respect were beginning to make sense. How could she have any self-respect if she let guys pick her up in joints like this—this was classy compared to some of the dives she’d been in—and do anything they wanted with her, then dispose of her as easily as they threw away a used rubber?

Carole didn’t seem to think she was a dimwit. She’d entrusted her to run an important errand. And what had she done in return? She’d let her down.

“Say, I gotta go,” she said suddenly. John had leaned over to lick her ear. She nearly knocked him off his stool when she reached for her purse and the padded envelope still lying on the bar. “Thanks for the drinks.”

“Hey, where’re you going? I thought, well, you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” Fancy said. “Sorry.”

He came off his stool, propped his hands on his hips, and angrily demanded, “Well, what the hell am I supposed to do now?”

“Jerk off, I guess.”