I file that away for later.
“The evening manager at The Loft is a woman named Jessica Barton. If she wonders why you didn’t interview in person, it’s because your aunt went to college with the senator’s wife.”
I nod, letting the cover story evolve in my mind. My aunt’s name is Lucia. She lives in Michigan now but still exchanges Christmas cards with Mrs. Sterling.
“Your application says you’re eighteen and have experience working in a diner,” he says.
“The good senator won’t be making a surprise visit, will he?” I eye the door, trying to catch a peek inside of what looks to be a very fancy lobby. I can’t forget that the senator knows my face, and has seen me with his son. If he senses I’m here for the wrong reasons, he might send the same people after me he sent after Grayson.
“He’s in Washington.”
I snort. “Guess he’s not so worried about his kid.”
Moore’s quiet a moment.
“Men like him let other people do the worrying.”
I can’t help but think he might be talking about Dr. O.
With a nod, I’m out the door, ankles wobbling in the stupid heels of these boots as the doorman ushers me inside. The lobby is glass and metal, not unlike the Sterlings’ house, and behind a front desk is a sign that says, Macintosh Building, a Sterling Property.
Of course it is. He already has his campaign headquarters and private club here. Social programs, restaurants, even various historic buildings are part of the senator’s renovation and revitalization plan. Matthew Sterling has embedded himself so deeply into the heart of Sikawa City, you can’t go very far in any direction without seeing his name on a plaque, or a fountain, or a billboard.
But right now, being here, it feels like I’ve just been swallowed by a monster.
In front of the elevators, carefully tucked out of view, is a metal detector. A woman in a green suit jacket checks my ID, then types the name into a laptop on the desk behind her.
“First day at The Loft?” she asks after a moment.
“That’s right.” I can convince anyone I’m someone else, but lying to people with badges makes my palms sweat.
She motions me through the machine and scans my bag with a wand. It’s more like the gateway to prison visitation than the entrance to a political office.
“Have a good afternoon, Jaime,” she says, and hands me a temporary pass to hang around my neck.
Head high, I stride toward the elevators, exhaling only when the mirrored doors close and I’m alone inside.
I’ve got this.
Get in, and get out.
With a chime, the doors open on the roof above the tenth floor, and I step out onto a terrace walled with cascading vines and exotic plants, and covered by a vaulted glass ceiling. A stone walkway leads past a koi pond, and with an appreciative whistle, I walk over the small arched bridge toward a hostess station.
And am immediately thrown back by Grayson’s face.
The framed picture hangs from the wall behind the dark wood station. His father’s featured, too, one arm tossed comfortably over his son’s shoulder, but my gaze bounces off Matthew and lands back on the boy with the sharp blue eyes. He’s smiling, and without the pinch of his jaw or the subtle strain in his neck, he looks younger, and happy.
This must have been taken before Susan Griffin died.
“That’s his son, Grayson.”
I turn sharply to my left to find a girl about my age approaching from the kitchen door. She’s pretty—model pretty—with dark eyes and long lashes, and the kinds of curves people write songs about. A slim white button-down meets a short black skirt, black stockings, and heels higher than mine.
She sizes me up, then focuses on the picture.
“But I guess you probably knew that already, didn’t you?”
CHAPTER 8
All the blood seems to rush to my head, and I grip the strap of my bag a little tighter.
“Why would I know that?” I ask the girl now standing beside me admiring Grayson and his father.
“I mean, he looks just like his dad, right?”
Right. I deliberately take the edge out of my voice and force myself to breathe.
“He does,” I say. “It’s kind of spooky.”
She makes a sound of agreement, and glances to my temporary badge. “You must be our new hostess. Jessica said to keep an eye out for you. I’m Myra Fenrir.”
She holds out a hand. I shake it.
“Jaime Hernandez.” I glance up as a waiter comes speeding out of the kitchen to the left, carrying a fancy cheese tray and wearing the same white-and-black ensemble as Myra. He’s older than us, and gives me a fake smile as he passes.
“Pierre, this is Jaime, the new girl,” Myra says.
“Great,” says Pierre. “Another cute college girl to steal my tips.”
He does not sound pleased. I get it. Mom always complains when new waitresses come in and take her regular tables.
“Relax. She’s taking the hostess position.” Myra rolls her eyes as Pierre snorts and hurries away. “You go to Sikawa State?”
I’m not sure what exactly my application has said about my availability, so … “I do.”
“Me too.” She smiles and steps out from behind the hostess stand. “What’s your major?”
I take a subtle glance around the floor for anyone who might work for Sterling’s campaign seated in the pavilion beyond. “Political science.”
“No way, me too!”
Great.
“Have you had Professor Garrison? I had her for diplomacy in the fall. She broke down foreign trade with Europe into song form and it changed my life.”
That seems a bit dramatic, but sure.
“I haven’t had her yet,” I say. “I’ve just taken the intro classes. But my mom campaigned for the president, and it kind of got me hooked on government.”
Her eyes light up. “Well, you’re in the right place. Senator Sterling’s staffers come up here for meetings like every day.”
Cue excitement. “Really?” And since we’re already nerding out on poli-sci, I add, “Do you know any of them?”
“A few.” Her lips pinch together so quickly I almost miss it, then she smirks. “They’re great tippers. Well, most of them.”
I smile, genuinely. I’ve just made a new fake best friend.
She tilts her head toward the kitchen. “Come on. Jessica—she’s our manager—got stuck in traffic, but she said I could get you set up.”
I follow Myra through the swinging doors into a brightly lit kitchen, filled with steel appliances, savory scents, and servers in the same outfit as Myra, bustling around.
“Watch it,” snaps a woman carrying a basket of fancy breads, and Myra and I smash against the doors of a walk-in fridge to get out of her way.
“Don’t take it personally,” Myra says. “People have to move fast back here. Have to keep the customer happy.”
“I get it,” I say. “It was the same at the diner I worked at.”
“Oh good,” she says as we turn a corner around an empty office, into a hall lined with lockers. She opens the second one and pulls out a giant to-go cup of coffee from the shop I saw across the street. “This is basically the same thing except everyone you seat probably owns a private jet.”