President Wright squeezes her husband’s arm just before she leans into the microphones. “Ladies and gentlemen, my dear friends, I will make this short and to the point.”

I hear her voice echo across the parking lot. She pauses after each phrase to let the words sink in.

“I have full faith and confidence in my husband’s innocence, and I trust that the good citizens of New Hampshire, who have stood by my side over the years, will also support my husband during this time of crisis.”

The president turns and kisses her husband’s cheek, making sure the cameras have a good angle. Then, as if it’s an afterthought, she steps up to the mics again and says, “I believe in our legal system, and I’m confident justice will be done here.”

She takes her husband’s hand. The Secret Service team surrounds them. As a unit, they walk up the steps to the courthouse doors.

“Quite a performance,” says Reynolds.

“It was a performance all right. Pure theater. They’re not a couple—they’re a damn criminal enterprise.”

My outburst must surprise Ron. A second later, he heads off to gather quotes.

Once again, I’m alone. I scan the masses. Almost every man, woman, and child is looking toward the courthouse, trying to get one last glimpse of the First Couple.

On the far side of the parking lot, I spot the lone exceptions: a man and a woman, looking straight at me.

I’ve seen these two before. My watchers.

Damn. Not again.

The crowd shifts, and they disappear.

All around me, people are chattering and yelling, but their words are a blanket of white noise. Again my mind whispers, Garrett. I hold out my hand, half expecting to see him reaching for me.

I fight back the tears as reality hits home.

The love of my life, Garrett Wilson, is dead. And I believe the man inside that courthouse is responsible for his death.

The First Gentleman.

He might even have pulled the trigger.

PART
ONE

THE PREVIOUS JANUARY

CHAPTER
1

Manhattan

In a wide corner office belonging to one of Nottingham Publishing’s senior editors, Marcia Dillion, I’m smiling as I watch my man, Garrett Wilson, do what he does best: Sell a project. And himself.

Tall and muscular with short, dark brown hair, he’s dressed today in a green oxford shirt, khaki slacks, and brown shoes. As he paces in front of Marcia’s desk, which is stacked high with manuscripts, his blue eyes twinkle.

Garrett was born with that special something that commands instant attention. He definitely gets Marcia’s when he says, “This book—it’s going to change politics forever.”