Tomorrow’s story could be anything. It could be about a new poll revealing Conroy’s lead. Or it could be about something else entirely. But given that Casey, and Denkler, hoped to dominate social media with their change-the-conversation news in a few more days, she didn’t like the enemy playing in her sandbox, nor preening over it in advance.
That’s why she was at the art gallery Rebel on Third and Seventy-Sixth, nibbling on a cracker and pretending to sip wine as Conroy chatted up donors in the corner. He stood next to a pricey piece of abstract art, and she half wondered if some of the wealthy patrons backing him had created the image of two red squares inside a blue one.
She’d infiltrated the event in the simplest way possible. She’d found it online, then bought a ticket under a fake name via Eventbrite. The cocktail party was being thrown to thank the biggest donors to the campaign so far, and Casey hoped she’d be able to pick up a clue, any clue, simply by circulating. She’d figured out the thin, baby-faced man was the press spokesperson, that the blond man was the chief of staff, and that the guy with slick dark hair was the campaign manager. She’d put those pieces together from her earlier digging into Conroy. But she couldn’t figure out who the guy in the suit with the short dark hair was. He wore thick, black glasses, and he had the press guy’s ear, whispering throughout the event.
She took her phone from her purse, pretended to scroll through photos, and snapped a shot of the two of them.
Casually, as if she were just anyone in attendance, she mingled and circulated, walking past them a few times.
But by the time the event started to wind down, she’d learned nothing more about tomorrow’s papers, so she hoped it had simply been a social media slip-up. Surely those happened all the time. Even so, she dumped the photos in a reverse image search when she returned home to her laptop. She found the guy with glasses. He was second-in-command at a strategy firm that specialized in campaigns. She Googled him some more, and found his nickname
The Spin Doctor.
The moniker made her skin crawl. She closed her laptop. She fired off some of the photos to her brother, adding her usual assortment of silly captions.
Good thing she hadn’t given up the sex toy business to become a detective, she mused. Besides, it was probably just an errant tweet.
* * *
Michelle looked at Jack as the plane landed.
His eyes were wide. He blinked once, then twice as the jet applied the brakes when the wheels touched the runway. He winced as he stared hard at his phone, scrolling slowly with his thumb. He shut his eyes, squeezed them tight, and it seemed as if he were wishing away what he was reading.
Wrapping a hand around his arm, she asked him if everything was okay. Before he could answer, her phone buzzed, coming alive again now that they were on the ground.
“No,” he whispered in a strangled voice.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, and her phone buzzed again, then bleated loudly. She snapped her eyes to the screen out of habit. Davis. He never called her work phone.
A chill ran through her bones as she answered.
“Hello?”
“Are you okay?” he asked, and her heart seized up when she heard his voice. This was how he sounded the night he’d told her their parents had died. He was the one who had answered the door when the police officer knocked to deliver the news about the fatal accident on the icy road. He was the one who’d found her in her bedroom upstairs, listening to music, and turned off the radio to tell her. He was the one who had delayed college for a year to help her finish high school because they were suddenly all alone. Just the sound of his voice sent her back to that night, but she couldn’t figure out what the hell he could be calling about now. The worst had happened. There was no one left but them. Unless something had happened to Jill.
A lump rose up in her throat. “Is Jill okay?”
“Jill’s fine. You didn’t see the story, did you?”
“No. I just landed,” she said, her voice shaky. “What is it? Just tell me.”
“I’m waiting at baggage claim for you. It’s not good, Michelle.”
Shame spilled over in her waves as her mind raced through possibilities. Pictures of her and Jack in the perfume shop doorway, on the train, even at the Grand Colbert. Oh Lord, had her skirt blown up? Had someone seen that jewel in her ass?
But that would have been welcome compared to the story.
Jack handed her his phone, and wrapped an arm around her as she read. “None of it is true. We’ll fix it. I promise. I swear,” he said, kissing her forehead as the written words sliced through her, like sharp knives, chopping her career to tiny pieces.
Sex Toy Mogul Becomes Sex Therapist for Shrink
By Staff
Today we learned that a certain prominent psychologist’s couch folds out into a bed. And who’s the bedfellow for this *cough, cough* intimate relationship therapist? (Intimate indeed!)
None other than New York City’s most eligible bachelor. Jack Sex-Toy-Mogul Sullivan has been providing sex therapy for a sex therapist.
The psychologist, Michelle Milo, who heads up several prominent New York City professional organizations and supposedly counsels patients on all their intimate issues, didn’t wait long to pounce on her celebrity patient. (Can’t blame you, Dr. Milo, he’s a hottie!) They’ve been playing sexual healing games since he began seeing her to mend his broken heart. Hell, did she ever do a bang-up job! You may recall they were spotted at dinner and at the symphony, and we’ve learned their relationship didn’t start with such innocent dates. It began in the most forbidden way! Scandalous!