Page 20 of End Game

Kayla would wait to see what forensics had to say before she started drawing up a list of Vicky’s potential enemies. And hers.

Ash reemerged and pointed at the balcony doors. “Are they on sensors?”

“Yes. All the exterior doors and windows.”

He whisked the curtains closed. “Got your phone?”

Patting her clutch tucked in the crook of her arm, she nodded. One of the officers had found her phone at the base of a large planter. Other than needing a new screen protector, it had survived its smash-and-slide with the flagstone floor.

He strode to her door. “Lock this behind me and don’t open it to anyone but me. Stay away from the windows and keep the lights off. No sense providing a beacon of your whereabouts.”

“Lights? Wait, where are you going?”

“To clear the rest of the house.”

“But—”

“Lock it.” The door closed quietly, but not before he flipped the light switch off.

Thrown into darkness, Kayla robotic-armed her way to the door, fumbled to engage the lock, then pressed her ear to the wooden barrier between them. Absolute quiet descended on the other side. She backed away from the door and tried to rub warmth back into her cold fingers.

After shrugging off Ash’s coat and folding it over a nearby chair, she slid her phone from her silver clutch and tapped the icon to engage the flashlight. Bright light flooded the darkness, guiding her to the walk-in closet. Once inside, she turned on the light and kicked off her high heels. When the entirety of her foot touched the carpeted floor, a moan escaped her lips, as it always did upon removing her armor.

She shucked off her evening gown, then drew black yoga pants and a long-sleeved tee from one of the many drawers along the wall. In all of her homes, her closets were designed the same way.

She kept her casual clothes, pajamas, and undergarments in the exact same drawers. Her power suits, sundresses, and evening gowns hung in the same alcoves. Her shoes stood in the same slots. Her jewelry nestled in the same protective cases.

Everything was designed in a way that required little thought, little decision-making, other than, which one? Even that took minimal effort. Her schedule dictated style, comfort, and color.

She arranged her homes in this way to reserve all her mental energy for strategizing and executing action plans for her clients.

A lot rode on her ability to convince policymakers that her client’s campaign was in their constituents’ best interests. Or, in many cases these days, their future reelection’s best interest. Political aspirations could fold on a dime after one wrongly backed initiative, one can-I-get-a-selfie-with-you picture, one ill-judged post.

Policymakers had to be convinced over and over and over before agreeing to back an initiative. Lobbying was one part strategy, one part networking, one part patience, one part investigative, and one part rooting out a legislator’s passions and weaknesses.

Kayla’s structured existence helped her be a damned good lobbyist.

What she wasn’t good at was inaction.

She hooked two fingers around a pair of black runners and slid her bare feet into the no-tie shoes with foam insoles. Heaven on rubber.

She stood in the center of her closet, motionless. Every cell in her body shouted at her to move.

But Vicky’s face after kept creeping into her mind like a phantom haunting her. Taunting her, pointing a finger at her.

What if she was wrong and someone really wanted her dead? Had something she’d done, said, not done, not said, caused one of her favorite people to die?

The possibility weakened her knees. Knees that had held her upright when friends deserted her, when clients lost faith in her, when competitors outmaneuvered her.

Marching into the bathroom, she grabbed a hair tie out of the top middle drawer and scooped her blond mass up until she had it secured in a sloppy bun at the back of her head. She would save washing the makeup off of her face until after Ash left.

Speaking of Ash, where the hell was he? With every minute he was gone, her security system lost another percentage point of her trust.

Returning to her closet, she stared at the back corner. The mental ticking clock urging her to do something besides busywork until he returned.

If he returned.

She couldn’t stop thinking about how everything in her life was normal until a single bullet shot her world into an entirely new direction.

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