“Then don’t you dare go behind my back again, Darlene. You don’t know what you’re screwing around with. You are way, and I mean way, out of your league here.”

“I want you to talk with Lou Welcome,” Darlene said.

Martin reddened even more. “I’ll do no such thing! You just told me he was a drug addict and an emergency doctor, not a nutritionist! The only arrangements I’m going to make are for you to leave town to have a visit with Lisa until this whole train thing is over and the corn is where it should be—in the ground and on the dishes in China. You need to get some perspective on things, Darlene. Leave the politics to me. I want you out of this. No more investigating. No more talk about Russell Evans, Lou Welcome, or your jaunts to Philadelphia. Is that understood?”

Darlene moved as far away from her husband as she could without actually leaving. “Or what?” she demanded.

“Or I promise you that Victor Ochoa will need to find a new career, and it’ll be your fault when it happens. And if your doctor friend gets in my way, I’ll have him hounded until he melts like hot butter.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Darlene said in a near growl.

“Don’t test me.”

Darlene and Martin locked eyes, with neither yielding. In many ways, Darlene knew Martin better than he knew himself. Although they often disagreed, Darlene had never known the president to lie to her. His threat to fire Victor, she believed, was not veiled or lacking teeth. He meant what he had said, and would do as he had promised. Darlene felt certain that was true.

But at some point during their argument, his eyes had betrayed him. At some point he hadn’t told the truth.

If only she knew what lie he had told.

“Just do yourself a favor, President Mallory,” she said.

“What’s that?”

“When they ask for someone to write your legacy, don’t recommend me.”

Chapter 47

CHAPTER 47

“Who is this?”

Kim could barely hear the caller above the din of rush hour noise.

She blocked her ear with one hand and moved away from the traffic and closer to the buildings. It had been a brutal day at work, and she had chosen take-home salad from Panera Bread over dinner with a potentially interesting congressman from California.

“Kim, it’s Doug, from Bar None,” the caller said.

“The bartender?”

“Yeah, Doug the bartender.”

Kim became hyperfocused. Why would he be calling? How did he even know her phone number?

“What’s up?” she asked.

“Some guy in the bar wants to buy you a drink. He gave me your number and paid me a hundred bucks to call you. Sorry to bug you, but the truth is I can always use that kind of cash.”

Kim tensed. “Is it … the same guy from before?” she asked.