The Lives Between Us Page 3

  Skye scowled at the desk as angry heat rushed her cheeks. “She can’t be. You—Faith said you’d take care of it.”

  “We did, but—”

  “You have a plan. The plan. She wouldn’t tell me what it was, but you had a plan. She can’t be gone.”

  “Honey, we just didn’t have enough time—”

  “I...I have to go.” Skye dropped and slumped into her chair.

  Beep. Beep. Beep. Skye glared at the insistent phone still clutched in her hand, then slammed it in the receiver. Niki dead?

  Her breath rushed out as if released from a pressure valve. Again. And again. Tears stung her eyes. She rubbed her throbbing temples, and her glance landed on a press announcement on the desk across from hers.

  SENATOR HASTINGS TO ARRIVE AT DETROIT METRO FOR PRESS CONFERENCE AT NINE P.M.

  Hastings. Again. Damn that man. He was coming home like the conquering hero and Niki was dead.

  They were going to have to put her still, little body in the ground, and he was warm and alive. He faced a victory celebration and she faced a heartbreaking goodbye.

  Bitter bile burned the back of her throat. Anger welled up in Skye’s chest until the pressure threatened to choke her. Her breath came in rapid bursts and tears flooded her eyes.

  Niki was gone, and the man who blocked potentially life-saving research was celebrating.

  “Bastard.” Skye swiped the tears from her eyes and grabbed keys from her purse. Snatching the press release from the desk, she bolted toward the door.

  Chapter 3

  Edward Hastings pushed aside the weariness of his sixteen-hour workday and donned the positive attitude always shimmering just a smile away, as easily as he shrugged into the navy Armani suit jacket. Slipping the newspaper under his arm, he hefted his carryon onto his aching shoulders and made his way to the front of the plane.

  The flight attendant smiled, whispering, “G’night and congratulations again, Senator.”

  He smiled back. “Thank you. And take care of that throat. Tea with honey—my wife swears by it.”

  Edward and his staff hurried up the dim jet bridge, then slowed in the waiting area, blinking as their eyes adjusted to the stark, incandescent terminal. He pulled back his sleeve to check the time. “Ten minutes.”

  “Right on time,” Ben, his campaign manager, said with satisfaction.

  He and his staff moved down the long corridor, bypassing the stairways to the tram. Edward preferred the exercise of the walk after hours sitting on the plane. Besides, he did some of his best thinking while walking. Spying a recycle container for paper material, he folded his newspaper, wove right, and stuffed it in while barely breaking stride.

  Edward couldn’t wait to get home and sleep at least seven long, uninterrupted hours in his own bed. After months of campaigning and eating cold chicken at banquets, he just wanted his family—and homemade spaghetti and Noelle’s spicy red pepper soup. Even that arrogant robomotor feline that insisted on sleeping on his pillow and shedding all over his suits couldn’t diminish Edward’s happiness at finally going home.

  To his right, he spotted a Sees Candy store and darted into it. Ben muttered an expletive and rushed after him. “What do you need? Adrienne can get it and catch up with us.”

  A young woman sitting on a stool behind the counter reading a glamour magazine looked up at his abrupt appearance. In one smooth motion, she smiled, stood, and tossed the magazine aside. “May I help you?”

  “Uh...” Edward searched the nearby shelves. With a quick step, he snagged a box of peppermints to his right and then craned left to see around Ben before turning back to the sales clerk. “I’m looking for those thin little...” He held up his finger and thumb an inch apart. “Wafer-like chippy things my wife loves.”

  Her face lit in amusement. “Molasses chips?” She rounded the counter and headed for the wall behind him. “Dark chocolate or milk?”

  “That’s it. Dark.” He placed the peppermints into her waiting hands and reached into his back pocket for his wallet.

  Ben shifted his carry-on to the other shoulder and then looked at the staff waiting outside the shop. He checked his cell phone. Lowering his voice, he said, “Adrienne could have done this.”

  Edward handed the girl his credit card. “I wanted to do it myself.”

  She took the card and scanned it. “Would you like me to wrap a bow around them?”

  Ignoring Ben’s hiss of irritation, he flashed her a bright smile. “That’d be great. Thank you.”

  Ben consulted his phone again and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

  “Stop worrying. I’ve never been late to a press conference.”

  Ben studied his spotless loafers, then stared at the large wall clock over the truffles. “You pay me to worry.”

  “Here you go, Senator.” The girl handed him his credit card and the candy. “Hope your wife enjoys it.”

  He hefted the package. “Great job with the bow. Have a good night.”

  She blushed and giggled. “You, too.”

  “Oh, geesh,” Ben muttered as they turned and hurried out of the shop. “What’d you forget?” He shrugged. “Not that it’s any of my business.”

  Edward tucked the candy into his carry-on. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, chocolate’s only good for one thing—making up. It’s like catnip for women.”

  Edward smiled and shook his head. “And that, my friend, is why you’re not married.”

  Ben stopped and threw him arms wide. “What?”

  Edward slowed so the jogging Ben could catch up. Explaining what little he knew about women would have to wait. Down the hall, just beyond the Detroit Metro airport security checkpoint, Edward glimpsed pro-life supporters clustered together whispering, peering intently up the hall for him.

  Large signs featuring photos of in utero fetuses were propped against their thighs or held loosely in hands. At a time when most people were preparing for bed, the press and cameramen meandered close by, congesting the wide lobby in hopes of procuring some witty comment or juicy gossip to headline their eleven o’clock news.

  Edward and staff passed security, their leather shoes slapping the stark linoleum floor as they adjusted ties, buttoned jackets, and put on their game faces. At their approach, the reporters slid cell phones into their pant pockets, stuffed notes in deep attaché cases, and grabbed their microphones. Turning on blinding floodlights, cameramen hefted cameras to their shoulders and jockeyed for prime positions among the throng of bobbing pro-lifers now waving their signs and shouting his name. The two groups faced off, familiar, respected, wary competitors.

  Edward leaned into Ben, whispering, “Noelle’s computer crapped out, and she’s got a miserable cold. She deserves a little chocolate.”

  Ben frowned. “That’s it?”

  Edward grinned and shook his head. With that attitude, Ben wasn’t likely to find a woman to marry him anytime soon.

  Edward advanced and moved to the side so he wouldn’t block the path of the few other late-night travelers. The crowd predictably moved with him like a huge amoeba—a fluid, shifting people-mass circling him.

  One eager reporter pushed forward and thrust his black microphone at Edward’s face, coming inches from whacking his nose. Edward put out a hand to lower the instrument to an acceptable distance. From his side, Ben stepped in front of him, a slight but helpful barrier, giving Edward a few seconds to compose himself while he prepped the crowd.

  Ben raised a hand to quiet everybody, but several seconds later resorted to a loud, sharp whistle. Edward raised his eyebrows and bit back a grin at the less-than-dignified, but effective, maneuver, making a mental note to ask Ben if he’d learned that subtle trick at Harvard’s Kennedy School of Government.

  “The Senator’s thrilled with your heartwarming reception. He regrets that he doesn’t have more than a few minutes, but he’s agreed to take several questions.” Ben stepped aside, baring Edward to the reporters, demonstrators, and mil
lions of viewers that might be awake to watch the late-night news.

  He smiled cordially. “Thank you all for coming out tonight. I’m touched by such a warm homecoming.” He greeted them in a raspy voice roughened by months of overuse. He nodded at the familiar face directly in front of him. “Roger?”

  “Senator, how does it feel to have won again?”

  “I haven’t won yet.” Yet with the withdrawal of his opponent, Edward now ran unopposed.

  “Even if Mr. Levinson hadn’t withdrawn, recent polls give you a twenty-three percent edge.”

  No need to kick a man while he’s down, especially when he just had a life-threatening heart attack and faced a long recovery. “I’m very pleased at the opportunity to serve the great people of Michigan again, however, not at the expense of a man’s health. Carl Levinson was a worthy adversary and a good man, and I wish him a speedy recovery.” He scanned the sea of reporters. “Joe?”

  “Despite having a reputation for being conservative, you supported Proposal 1, which would raise state sales tax from 6 percent to 7 percent. What would you say to those who claim that nearly 40 percent of the predicted revenue generated would go to special interest groups?”

  “In general I am against raising taxes, yet upgrading our infrastructure is critical for both safety and economic reasons. Proposal 1 is an imperfect solution, but it’s one that’ll make our roads and bridges safer. May 5th, the voters will decide if it’s a viable solution or not.” He looked to the back of the room and pointed to a woman reporter. “Margaret.”

  “Do you think that it was your pro-life stance that got you re-elected—rather, gained you a healthy lead over Mr. Levinson?”

  “Among other things.” Edward’s mouth twitched in amusement; it took more than a single issue to get elected to the United States Senate. When reporters weren’t stirring the pot, they were trying to simplify everything and wrap things up in a tidy bow.

  “Don’t you think it’s unfair to force your personal religious beliefs on the rest of us?” a husky female voice to the side asked.

  Edward schooled his face not to frown as he zeroed in on the unfamiliar reporter. She had curly brown hair, delicate facial features, red-rimmed eyes, and a rosy nose—like she had Noelle’s nasty head cold, but she didn’t sound congested. She looked to be in her mid- twenties—the perfect age to fight for any and every cause. She stood with feet spread apart and arms crossed over her chest in a defensive posture. Her raised chin matched the challenging gleam in her eye.

  How the hell did she get through? His staff had done a poor job of spot-checking the crowd tonight.

  “And you would be?”

  “Skylar Kendall, Detroit Chronicle. Your pro-life stance is a personal moral choice—one that compels you to block life-saving stem cell research. Don’t you think it’s unfair to impose your religious beliefs on Michigan citizens?”

  Skylar Kendall? The unusual name didn’t take him long to place—the reporter who never passed up an opportunity to not-so-subtly gut him in every article she wrote.

  “I support stem cell research. I do not support creating embryos for the sacrificial purpose of taking their stem cells.” He turned to the opposite side of the room to call on a familiar reporter. “Wendy?”

  “Come on, Senator,” Ms. Kendall blurted out before Wendy could open her mouth. “It’s your job to represent the will of the people, not further your own moral agendas.”

  Edward stiffened and returned his attention to the irritating reporter. He chose his words carefully and modulated his tone. He forced stiff facial muscles to relax. “It’s also my job to uphold the Constitution. The right to life is a constitutional entitlement. I encourage ethical lines be drawn in a way that respects all human life.”

  “What constitutes ‘a life’ is a notorious gray area, but what is crystal clear is that over two million Michiganders voted for lifting the ban on stem cell research. In passing Proposal 2, Michigan people spoke loud and clear, yet you persist in trying to undermine this progress by creating bills that increasingly limit and regulate stem cell researchers.

  “This regulation costs money, time, and could lead to Michigan’s brightest scientists moving to more hospitable states. Stem cell research is predicted to be an eight billion-dollar industry by 2016. How can you possibly justify your stem cell position when it’s handicapping Michigan’s economy?”

  Anger vibrated off the young reporter in almost visible, palpable waves. This was personal for her.

  “Michigan gained 44,000 jobs so far this year and unemployment rates have dropped to 6.3%—rates not seen since 2002. Professional and business services, manufacturing, education and health services all continue to show robust growth. With Detroit’s emergence from bankruptcy, we’ve a chance to be a part of a spectacular restoration.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ben’s circling index finger indicating that he should wind up.

  “Thank you again for this warm welcome, and I look forward to serving you.” Edward smiled and nodded, then turned from the microphones and cheering crowd.

  Annoyed that he’d allowed Ms. Kendall to goad him into a defensive response, Edward stalked to the waiting cars.

  Well, that was hardly smooth. Thank God the election’s nearly over.

  * * *

  The Senator was eloquent and well spoken. As mesmerizing as a snake charmer. Skye moved with the crowd toward the exit door. Her gaze fixed on the back of the Senator’s head. His staff piled into the two identical dark Lincoln Town cars, while Hastings fished his cell phone from his suit coat breast pocket and angled the screen until he could see it.

  A concentrated expression, as if making a mental note, flickered across his face. Phone still in hand, the Senator turned and faced the crowd. With a smile and a final wave, he climbed into the waiting car.

  He was good; she’d give him that. But Hastings couldn’t really believe that crap he’d spouted; more than likely he was fooling himself, too.

  Chapter 4

  “Dear Darlene?” Skye’s eyes popped wide as she stared at the executive editor of the Detroit Chronicle. An advice column? “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Nope. Darlene’s taking a leave of absence, so when you come back, you’ll be covering for her.”

  “Karen, about what happened at the airport...” Skye swallowed hard. “I know I was out of line. I shouldn’t have gone to the press conference. But I just found out my niece died, and I went a little crazy.”

  Hands clasped, Karen leaned forward onto her elbows. “Which is the only reason you’re not being terminated. I talked Stanley into approving a one-week suspension—without pay. When you come back, you’ll answer six to eight letters a day and I’ll pick the best ones to go to print. And, Skye,” her boss paused and peered at Skye over her reading glasses. “Do not waste my time. Simple, helpful advice.”

  Suspension, without pay? That’d hurt, but she deserved it. Dear Darlene? Now, that was just plain humiliating.

  Skye tried to keep the pleading from her voice. “I know it was unprofessional, and I promise nothing like that will ever happen again. I’ll write Senator Hastings an apology—I’ll even apologize in person if you want me to, but...an advice column?”

  How could Skye possibly be taken seriously or do any noteworthy investigative journalism while writing an advice column?

  Karen took off her glasses and carefully laid them on the desk. “Skye, I’m very sorry for your loss. But this assignment is not a punishment.”

  “It—”

  Karen held up her hand. “Let me finish.”

  When Skye reluctantly nodded, Karen lowered her hand and continued in a softer tone. “You were wrong to go to that press conference —especially intimating that you were representing this paper. I understand you and your niece were very close. I get that stem cell therapy might have been her only hope, but you cannot verbally attack a U.S. senator because he does not share your opinion.

  “Though you did ask some t
ough, valid questions, your timing was inappropriate and inopportune.” With a sigh, Karen leaned back in her chair. “You’re filling in for Darlene because I need somebody to cover for her and you need some time and space. You need to get some perspective. Forget the senator.”

  Forget the senator who constantly hampered stem cell research and therapy, effectively killing any hope they’d had for a treatment for Niki? Not likely. “I’m better. Really, I—”

  Karen pushed her sleeve back to look at her chunky crystal-encrusted watch. “We’ll see you one week and forty-five minutes from today—unless you’d prefer to tender your resignation?”

  Skye opened her mouth to object and then clamped it shut. If she turned down this assignment, she’d be researching foot fungus for the next six months. She had to do it. Great. Just great.

  She shook her head. “No. I’ll be back.”

  Damn Hastings.

  * * *

  Skye devoted her suspension week to researching Edward Hastings and avoiding her sister. She didn’t want to worry Faith with her latest screw-up, and she had to get that man out of office before he did any more damage.

  Holed up in her apartment, she spent days parked in front of her computer studying websites like OpenSecrets.org and the Federal Election Commission, digging into Hastings’s campaign expenditures, only to become frustrated by the learning curve.

  “Waste of time, Skye.” There were watchdog groups who excelled in ferreting out illegal campaign contributions and understood the law far better than she did. If there were anything remotely suspicious, Hastings’s opponent would surely have uncovered it. What was she thinking?

  Skye slouched in her chair, picked up her pen, and crossed out “campaign contributions.” Tax returns? Ditto. She crossed out the second item and the third, too. His personal charitable deductions were unremarkable as well, detailing the usual donations to alma maters Harvard and University of Michigan, his church, several pro-life organizations—surprise, surprise—and then a healthy amount to the Marilyn Care Center Women’s Shelter. Dead end.