“Yes, I’m done,” Jordie said.
“I’ll ask the waiter to wrap up the sandwich. Maybe you’ll want it later.”
She gave the marshal a weak smile, but her appetite wasn’t going to improve until circumstances changed, and she feared that they would change only for the worse, not the better. When every projected outcome was bad, what was she to hope for?
After the room service waiter left, Gwen made sure the door to the suite was bolted, then sat down at a desk and booted up her laptop. Agitated and restless, Jordie moved to the window, pushed back the drapes, and gazed out over the downtown skyline.
Looking to her left across Canal Street, she was afforded a bird’s-eye view of the French Quarter’s narrow lanes. On the river, a paddle-wheeler full of tourists chugged along. The sidewalks were congested with pedestrians.
Other people were actually having a good day. They were going about their business, eating, drinking, sightseeing, enjoying the company of friends and family, untouched by tragedy, unscathed by calamities of their own making.
She envied them their sense of freedom, even if it lasted only for today. Not since that December day in her childhood had she felt entirely free. The life-altering event of that day followed her everywhere. Even on occasions calling for celebration, it was a tenacious companion that spoiled her enjoyment. Nothing she did was free of its influence. It had dictated every major decision. Much had been sacrificed to it.
Now, because of those few fateful moments, she was sequestered and under the guard of federal law enforcement officers. Her future was uncertain, her life in jeopardy.
She wasn’t even free to go to work and do the job she loved. As they’d left the FBI building, she’d asked Gwen if they could stop at her office, just long enough for her to check the status of certain upcoming events that were sizable jobs and would greatly contribute to her company’s annual revenue.
Gwen had denied the request pleasantly but in a nonnegotiable manner. “I’m sorry, Jordie. Agent Wiley wants you to be…protected.”
“Watched.”
“Same thing.”
“No it isn’t. Not at all.”
Gwen hadn’t countered because the distinction was unarguable. However, she had interceded on Jordie’s behalf and gotten Joe Wiley’s permission to let one of Extravaganza’s employees deliver to the hotel mail and paperwork that was time sensitive, such as work orders that required Jordie’s approval before projects could move forward.
It was a small victory, though. Because, once delivered, Gwen had opened each envelope and package, inspecting the contents before handing it over to Jordie.
She suffered no illusions. She was under guard. True, Joe Wiley didn’t wish any harm to come to her, but he was also mistrustful of her, as well he should be. She should have told him about that trip to Costa Rica.
She hadn’t wanted to go, but Panella had given her no other choice. She’d hated every minute spent in his company, had willed away the memory of those three days, and had almost succeeded in pretending that she’d never allowed herself to compromise as she had.
But by telling Joe Wiley about the trip, Josh had resurrected it and all its residual ugliness, and merely lamenting it wasn’t going to wash with the authorities. In the context of their case against Panella, the consequences of her being in Central America with him could be much more severe.
The sun shone in warmly through the window glass, but she hugged her elbows as though chilled at the prospect of testifying in court about that trip. Ruefully she thought back on ordinary days when catastrophes had amounted to a late floral delivery, a shortage of tablecloths, a misprint on a program, a grease fire in a hotel kitchen. Put into perspective, those had been mild mishaps. She wished now for problems that easily solvable.
The ones confronting her now seemed insurmountable. Not the least of them was Shaw Kinnard, more specifically the emotional tumult his very name engendered.
When she saw him not bloodied and dying but alive, learned that he wasn’t a notorious murderer but an FBI agent, her relief had been profound. But it was instantly squelched. When she grasped the scope of his duplicity and its impact on her, she’d barely restrained herself from lunging at him, clawing at his eyes, hurting him.
In addition to being infuriated, she’d also been sick with humiliation over her gullibility. She would never forgive herself for being taken in, for thrilling to his sexual innuendos, even a little. She’d actually begun to believe that they were more than light teases meant to provoke her. She’d begun to think that the feelings underlying them were deeper and more meaningful, to think…
Things that now seemed incredibly naïve.
Suddenly the sunlight was too bright. It was making her eyes water. She jerked the drapes closed and said to Gwen, “I’m going to lie down for a while.”
“A nap will do you good. Let me know if you need anything.”
“I will.”
“Jordie?”
She turned.
“What happened between you and Kinnard while you were in that garage?”
“You know what happened.”