Girl Three (33 page)

As he led her away from the bedroom, he said, “Sam thought the yacht was a perfect solution to the privacy problem she would’ve had if she’d conducted her business at a hotel.”

“Her business? As if what she did was an everyday method of lobbying.” Jessie sank onto an upholstered banquette in the living area.

“Theoretically, it is. Whether it’s sex or money, an ambassadorship or an appointment to the bench, transactions like that happen every day.” Across the room, he leaned against a built-in teak cabinet, his ankles crossed, a huge television behind him. “Just ask some of the guys from D Dock—like the one who kept a document on his yacht that prosecutors called the ‘bribe menu.”

Jessie shook her head. “Can an ethical person survive in this city? And accomplish anything good?” She didn’t expect answers. She already had them—had already lived them. “It makes sense that you would bring me here tonight,” she said.

“How so?”

“I seem to be coming full circle. Today I went back to the National Gallery of Art, where Sam’s memorial was. Now I’m aboard the yacht where she launched her personal Hope Campaign. The beginning of the end.”

“Getting some closure?”

Not until Nina calls.
“Trying,” she said. “I still have questions.”

“About Sam’s death?”

A sustained gust of wind howled around the yacht.

“Do you think Ian accidentally killed her?” she asked. “That what he wrote in his suicide note was true?”

Philippe’s handsome features bunched into a grimace. “Yes. Ian had an unusual attachment to Sam. He always played it off like he was some kind of father figure to her, but I didn’t buy it.” The boat swayed. Philippe planted both feet on the floor and crossed his arms. “He took advantage of her, she died, and he was too much of a coward to face what he had done.”

Jessie imagined how angry Philippe would be if he knew Ian had been having an affair with Elizabeth, and if he knew Ian was the father of the son he thought was his. She’d let them sort out those secrets. But there was one she was willing to share.

“Ian’s semen wasn’t a match. He didn’t have the same blood type as the man Sam had sex with the night she died.”

Philippe squinted beneath lowered brows. “What?”

“The man Sam was with has a rare blood type. Ian’s was Type O, the most common.”

“You’re sure there wasn’t a mistake? A mix-up in the lab?”

She thought about Nina and her dedication to details. Jessie never doubted her. But Nina hadn’t been responsible for all of the testing, and Sam’s original tox report had been revised.

Could she have come on to Talmont based on false information?

“No,” she said, uncertain. “The lab tests were official.”

She was too rattled to tell him about Talmont, too worried there’d been a mistake.

Philippe pulled his phone from a clip on his belt and began typing with his thumbs. “Don’t be fooled,
chérie
. It’s all an illusion. Nothing’s official in Washington.” He looked up and smiled sorrowfully.

Her limbs felt heavy, weighed down by the gravity of her possible error in judgment. She had to keep hoping that Nina would call and that Talmont was a match.

“It was interesting to see your father with Helena after Ian died,” Philippe said. “Regardless of what happened in the past, it looks like they’re civil with each other now.” Numb to it all, Jessie didn’t care. The sway of the yacht lulled her deeper into apathy.

Outside, a man walked up D Dock. He cast a large, dark shadow, stiff against the wind.

Jessie’s phone vibrated and rang. She yanked it from her pocket and checked the screen, managing a sliver of hope when she saw Nina’s name. “Sorry,” she said. “I have to get this.” She raised the phone to her ear. “Hi.”

“Sorry it took so long.”

“Have you got the…” She stopped before she said too much.

“I hate to tell you this. Talmont’s blood is Type A. He’s not a match.”

Jessie’s mind reeled. From the corner of her eye, she saw movement out on the dock. “But—”

The window across from her shattered. Shards of glass rained on her, propelled by the rushing wind. Adrenaline shot through her veins. She dropped her phone and covered her face with her hands.

A clanking
thud
sent a tremor through the floor, and she scrambled away from the impact.

Between her and Philippe, a spark exploded into a raging fireball. Black smoke billowed from hellish orange flames. Jessie let out a shrill cry and leapt toward the sliding glass doors. Her nose stung with the smell of gasoline. The boat’s smoke alarms blared.

Heat surged against her as the fire spread quickly, spanning the width of the cabin. Clouds of thick smoke choked her and she tried to hold her breath.

“Jessie!”

She barely heard Philippe, but she couldn’t see him. “Get out,” he yelled, “onto the deck.”

“What about you?” She glanced behind her, beyond the doors. Smoke scorched her eyes.

Another clanking
thud
. A burst of fire engulfed most of the deck.

Frantic, she looked one way, then the other, encroaching walls of flames on both sides.

“Philippe?” she yelled.

No response.

She prayed that he’d escape through the front of the yacht. Her only choice was to go out the back.

Wind swept the flames across the deck, quickly consuming her path to escape. Jessie gasped for air and coughed. She grabbed the door handle and pulled hard.

It didn’t budge.

She gripped the handle with both hands and leveraged all of her weight. The door slid open a crack but more air swept in, fueling the blaze. She held her breath and tugged harder, making just enough space to squeeze through.

Out on the deck, she sucked in a smoke-tinged gulp of air. Pressing her back against the glass, she sidestepped to the port side of the yacht. Flames licked at her feet.

She reached the side and peered over into the icy, churning water.

Oh, God.

Her body shook. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.

Fire or freezing water?

A hungry yellow flame leapt from the fire and ignited the hem of her coat, consuming the fabric fast.

Her skin stung, then seared.

Tears trailed down her face.

“Jessie, jump!” She could have sworn she heard Michael’s voice.

She closed her eyes and jumped.

Chapter Fifty

Michael sat in a stiff chair next to Jessie’s hospital bed, trying to stay awake. He’d traded his soggy clothes for a set of blue scrubs that the nurses loaned him. A blanket was draped over his shoulders, giving him false hope that it would warm him. The cold had seeped into his bones.

Jessie’s nurse came into the dimly lit room, her face familiar to him now. She had kind eyes, like his mom’s, and the courtesy to keep her curiosity separated from her care. Looking wide awake in the middle of the night, she whispered, “Do you mind stepping out just a moment? I need to check her vitals and her burns.” Her rueful look told him she was sorry to ask, but they were already bending the rules by allowing him in Jessie’s room.

He wasn’t family, fiancé, or even significant other. Just other. The guy who’d jumped into the icy Washington Channel and saved the girl.

Croft had made an appearance, tossed around his don’t-you-know-who-I-am authority, got Jessie a private room, and told the people in charge to let Michael stay. Once the doctor had assured him that Jessie’s injuries were minor, Croft had left, telling Michael he’d call for updates. With uncharacteristic despondence, he’d admitted that he was the last person Jessie would want to see when she woke up. For once, Michael agreed with him. He figured she felt the same about him, but he was willing to stick around and risk it.

He slogged out into the hallway, leaned against the wall, tipped his head back, and stared at the ceiling. Croft had agreed to release him from his contract, as long as Michael consented to twenty-four hours of briefing and shadowing his backup. The judge had wanted the briefing to begin immediately, so he gave Michael another day in the apartment. After that, Michael had to move out. Except for the confidentiality clause, his contract with Croft would be null and void. His relationship with Jessie wasn’t much different.

The nurse came out of Jessie’s room and smiled sympathetically. He wondered how many night shifts she’d pulled, how many anxious people she calmed. “You can go back in now.”

“How is she?”

“Making progress. Her temperature’s regulating. The burn is second degree, like the doctor said. It’ll be painful for her and might scar, but she’ll be fine.” She patted his forearm and looked him in the eyes. “I promise.”

Michael gave her the courtesy of smiling back. He returned to his post at Jessie’s bedside and sank into the unyielding chair. Dazed, he watched the IV fluids drip through the tubes on their way into Jessie’s veins, through her system, to her heart.

He wished it were that easy for him.

Things between them had been bad enough after their argument over her lying to Detective Davenport. Then came her stunt with Talmont. He understood her desperation to get justice for Sam. But all of the revulsion he’d felt when Sam had carried on with the senator multiplied exponentially when it was Jessie.

Because now it was personal.

After Jessie had come on to Talmont and they’d broken into Ian’s lab, Michael had realized how much he wanted to build a relationship with her—in spite of what she’d done—and how different he’d felt when that had been a possibility.

That’s why he had quit, contract or not. He’d cut his ties with Croft and hoped that would mean something to her when he faced her with the truth. When the time was right. But now he’d have to explain why he’d followed her to the yacht club.

The scene replayed in Michael’s mind. The D Dock gate screeching open. A guy in a hooded coat carrying a paper grocery sack walking down the dock, bottles clinking.

“Must’ve run out of liquor,” said Yang, Michael’s backup, an affable Asian guy. “Sounds like more than enough for tonight.”

They hunkered down on the shore, on the channel side of the fence. The guy with the sack walked to the end of the dock, and set down the bag.

Michael’s senses went on alert. “Something’s not right with that guy.” He shoved his binoculars in his pocket. “Let’s move.”

They sprinted down the dock. By the time they reached the end, the guy had fired off three Molotov cocktails, all exploding on Philippe’s yacht. He had another one in his hand, with the wick lit.

Michael pulled his gun. “Throw it in the water. Now.” Yang took another angle, gun drawn.

Michael saw it in slow motion.

The guy gazed at him with empty eyes and dropped the bottle at his feet. The instantaneous fireball engulfed him. He let out a harsh, guttural scream and staggered off the dock.

Michael and Yang shared a sick, shell-shocked look, but there was no time to save the arsonist. They holstered their guns.

“Get Philippe.” Michael pointed to the bow of the yacht, still accessible. “I’ll find Jessie.” Yang leapt across the boarding ramp and onto the gangway in an instant.

Michael tried to maintain control, even though Jessie’s odds of surviving were going up in flames. Fire had blocked any access to her, but he caught a glimpse of her silhouette on the port side of the deck.

“Jump!” he yelled, but the wind whipped the volume from his voice.

She’d climbed onto the side rail, the hem of her coat in flames.

“Jessie, jump!”

Michael shivered beneath the blanket, remembering his violent impact on the sharp sheets of ice, his plunge into the frigid water, and the debilitating fear that he wouldn’t get to Jessie in time.

She’ll be fine…I promise.

“Michael?” Jessie’s voice came out ragged.

He stood, gently squeezed her hand, and smiled hesitantly. He felt warmer now that she was awake.

She blinked several times and slipped her hand from beneath his. “No,” she whispered.

Michael’s heart froze, as if he’d jumped back into the icy channel.

Jessie closed her eyes and went back to sleep.

Chapter Fifty-One

After a day in the hospital, Jessie was relieved to get back to Sam’s place. Exhausted, but relieved.

Nina had sat with her all day—even while she napped—brought her back to Sam’s and gotten her settled. She’d mother-henned her about taking her medicine, taking care of the burn on her thigh, and taking it easy. But Jessie wasn’t worried. Physically, she would be fine.

They sat at opposite ends of Sam’s couch, and Jessie had her feet up on the expensive coffee table. As difficult as it had been, they’d avoided any mention of Sam’s murder and its associated characters until they left the hospital. No telling who might’ve been listening, so they’d talked about other things—like Sophie and Nate. Nina had told her about some of the mushy e-mails Nate sent from Afghanistan. Jessie had shared funny stories about working for Franz.

She’d been reluctant to spoil the mood with talk of murder and death, even on the way back to Sam’s. She understood why Nina wanted her to move on, to accept that she’d done the best she could for Sam, and to heal.

“Philippe said there must’ve been a mistake in the lab.” Jessie talked quickly, getting the words out before she lost her nerve.

Nina’s eyes filled with dread.

Jessie didn’t blame her. “I’m not doubting
you
,” she said, even faster. “You weren’t responsible for all the testing. You just reported the results.”

Nina looked defeated. Jessie admired her patience, but she was about to take advantage of it. “Remember how Sam’s original tox report was revised?”

Nina nodded once quickly, as if she didn’t want to encourage her.

“Then it would make sense that someone might’ve changed the serology report, too.”

Nina frowned. “Yeah, it would. And I don’t know why that didn’t cross my mind at the time. So much of what you’ve gone through could have been avoided.”

“Are you kidding? Do you think I would’ve been deterred by speculation? It hasn’t stopped me so far.” Jessie smiled. This might be the beginning of letting go. Giving herself credit for trying, even though she’d made mistakes. Even though she’d failed.