I watch the expression on her face change. She’s cogitating on what I said, something she never does in a meeting. Not even once that I could recall. She knows that if I go down for something I didn’t do, she’s going right down with me. I’ll make sure there’s more than a whiff of impropriety associated with her.

She gives me a long, penetrating gaze. “I don’t like your tone,” she finally says.

I give her a faux-concerned look—one that mirrors hers in every budget-crisis meeting.

“There is no tone here,” I tell her. “We’re innocent, Carrie. Some freak killed my wife. It’s random and gross, but that’s what happened. People always think the husband did it, you know, to get with his floozy mistress. That’s not what happened here. You aren’t a floozy. And you aren’t my mistress. We’re free and clear here. Just sit tight.”

She doesn’t say another word.

For once.

I know that Carrie will be more careful now. I know that she’ll stay clear of Linda London and the likes of her. We had no real love affair—by Clintonian standards anyway—but whatever story Carrie tells will make her look like a liar, a businesswoman clinging to the remnants of a once-promising career. There is no way the media can paint what happened between Carrie and me as anything but sexual harassment. I am her subordinate. After all, she took advantage of me by holding the keys to my promotions, the raises that I’d earn in the future.

Hashtag Me Too.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

LEE

Adam’s boss looks like something out of a magazine. We don’t see many like Carrie LaCroix in Shelton. At least not out and about. It’s Friday morning, and she’s come before going to the office to meet me at a Seattle coffee shop with something big to tell me.

“Can’t talk about it over the phone,” she’d said. “It’s a delicate matter.”

There’s obviously no casual Friday at SkyAero. She’s dressed to the nines. Her suit that looks very expensive. Her nails are done in a tasteful bing cherry hue and her makeup’s applied better than a YouTube expert would have done. She’s a few years older than me, but she proves the point that people with money have access to better cosmetics.

Immediately I capture an energy from her that hides under her flawless skin.

She’s nervous.

“I took the liberty,” she tells me, indicating a pair of coffee cups. “Hope you don’t mind. I’m kind of like that.”

I thank her and wonder what she means by the remark. Kind of what? Presumptuous? Kind of busy? Kind of thoughtful?

I choose thoughtful.