“It was my pleasure. Best of luck to you, Ms. Agoston.”
I met Drake at the door. “Lead the way.”
The paneled lobby of the U.S. Attorney’s Office was empty except for the receptionist and my mother. She was dressed in a linen pantsuit that she’d somehow managed to keep wrinkle free. No surprise there. Wrinkles were the enemy. Except it was clear that her current budget didn’t allow for regular Botox, because for the first time in my life, my mother had crow’s feet and looked very much her actual age. It reminded me that the last year hadn’t just been rough on me. My feelings toward her softened when I thought about her staying in New York and braving the gossip and ugly aftermath, while I’d chosen to run and hide. Whatever else she was, she was a strong woman.
“Mother. How are you?”
Her eyes raked me from head to toe, and any softness I felt faded. I could only imagine the flaws she was cataloging. The hair (which desperately needed a fresh dye job), the dozens of interconnected tattoos, the plain black tank and jeans, and my ratty old Chucks (which desperately needed replacing). I braced for her criticism, but it didn’t come.
“I’ve been trying to see you for weeks, but they wouldn’t let me.” Her tone was aggrieved.
Maybe … she’d missed me? It was possible that a year had given her some perspective about what was really important. Not money. Not status. Not influence. People. Family.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t really have any control over that.”
She waved off my response with a flip of her golden bob.
“Despite your … appearance … you seem to have done well for yourself in New Orleans. You are your mother’s daughter after all. Landed on your feet.”
What the hell was she talking about?
If she called over a year of lying to everyone and living under a false identity ‘doing well for myself’ and ‘landing on my feet,’ then we had very different interpretations of those phrases.
And then her meaning hit me. Her reason for being here became crystal fucking clear. A cold rush of disappointment flooded me as her next words confirmed my thoughts.
“The son of a former congressman? I didn’t think you had it in you, Charlotte. I was happily surprised when I saw it on the news. It’s too bad he’s decided not to run. They’re blaming it on his mother’s condition, and I’m hoping it’s not really because of you. It’ll be much harder to get him back if that’s the case.”
His mother’s condition? Decided not to run?
“What happened to Mrs. Duchesne?”
“It all hit the papers at the same time. She had a stroke. Spent several weeks in a coma. She’s only been out of the hospital and home for a week or so now. I’ve been following it rather closely, given the circumstances.”
I stumbled to a chair and sat.
Oh my God. Simon.
“She’s okay, though? She’s going to be all right?” I asked, my chest aching for him. For his father. Jesus Christ.
“The extent of her recovery is unclear from the papers, and the family has released very little information. I came to bring you some things so you’d be properly attired when you rushed to his side to comfort him during his time of need. It’s just unfortunate it’s taken so long for the FBI to sort out this ridiculous mess.”
Mercenary. Bitch.
She crossed the lobby to retrieve a garment bag from the sofa on the opposite side of the room.
“This is for you.”
I eyed the bag like it held hazardous waste. If it contained trappings of my former life, that description wasn’t far off in my mind.
“Keep it.”
“But Charlotte, you need to—”
I crossed my arms. “Don’t tell me what I need to do.” I fought to keep my voice steady, but my success was marginal. “You don’t know me. You never did.”
Her gaze hardened as she straightened her already perfect posture.
“You have a chance to pull us out of the gutter where your father dragged us.” She hissed the quiet words from between clenched teeth. “And you will not waste it. Do you hear me, Charlotte? If there’s a chance that man will take you back after all of the shameful publicity you’ve brought on yourself—You. Will. Not. Waste. It.” She reached down and grabbed my arm, her nails biting into my skin.
“Let. Me. Go.”
She glanced down and released her hold as if she was surprised to find my arm in her grip.
Smoothing her pristine linen suit jacket, she attempted to tuck away the flare of emotion. It was probably the most honest reaction I’d ever seen from her. But she couldn’t quite hide the desperate look of a drowning woman. One who thought to use her daughter as a life raft. Well, Mother, I thought, I’m not even sure if I can save myself. But she needed to know that Simon wasn’t going to be her ticket back into the social circles from which she’d fallen. I wouldn’t let anyone use him. Not even my own mother.
“My relationship—or lack thereof—with Simon, is none of your business. And it will never be any of your business. Please don’t come looking for me again until you’ve decided to act like a decent human being instead of a manipulative bitch. I have to go. Good luck, Mother.”
She stayed frozen in place as I stepped around her to make my way to the elevator. As the doors shut, I wondered if it would be the last time I saw her.
Although the papers had referred to it as ‘Club Fed,’ the razor wire, stony-face guards, and shifty-eyed inmates of FCI Otisville reminded me all too much of Rikers. A chill slid through me at the memory. If not for Ivers’s intervention at Simon’s direction, I might be spending the rest of my life in a place like this.