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Authors: Kevin O'Brien
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to her on the sofa. “Please, shut up,” he whispered in her ear. He patted her arm. “We didn’t check this room for bugs. And we’ve been scheduled to speak here for a month now. That’s plenty of time for Foley’s tribe to have set up some kind of eavesdropping party. Get my drift?”
Frowning, Bridget glanced around the hotel room, then finally stared down at the burgundy carpet. “Oh God, Brad,” she murmured. “I wasn’t even thinking about that. I’m so sorry.”
He put his arm around her. “No, I should be apologizing to you. I keep thinking about what happened to you last night. If you weren’t helping me with this campaign, you wouldn’t have these creeps coming up to your house, peeking in your windows at three o’clock in the morning.”
Brad hugged her, and she held on to him for a moment. Then the phone rang again.
Sighing, Brad got to his feet, went to the door, and called in Shelley, Chad, and Claudio from the hotel’s hallway. Within a few moments, the hospitality suite was under siege again—with phones ringing, people talking over one another, and hotel staff and campaign volunteers going in and out. Then someone let in a few reporters and photographers. “It’s hold-on-to-your-purse time,” Bridget whispered to her assistant. That was their private, not-so-funny joke, referring to a similar scene weeks ago in another crowded hospitality room, where Shelley’s purse had been stolen.
“No kidding,” Shelley replied, under her breath. She had her purse tucked under her arm. “It’s like the ship-cabin scene in that Marx Brothers movie. All that’s missing is the maid and the manicurist.”
Camera flashes were going off. Someone thrust a microphone in front of Bridget’s face. “When you were just kids together, Bridget, did you ever think your brother would grow up to run for senator?” a perky blond reporter asked.
“Oh, as far back as grade school, I figured he was headed for great things,” Bridget responded, putting on a smile. “Brad was always very popular—with everyone. He was president of this and that, captain of practically every team. Even our teachers adored him. I lost track of how many times my teachers asked me, ‘Why can’t you be more like your brother?’ If Brad wasn’t such a wonderful guy, I’d have hated him.”
“And Brad was there for you when your husband left you, wasn’t he?” the reporter asked.
“Um, yes, he was.” Bridget managed to keep smiling. She didn’t want to go into details with this reporter about her marriage failing. Bridget nervously glanced around the crowded room, and hoped the woman would change her line of questioning.
Among all the people, she saw a man standing against the wall—near the doorway. He stared back at her. It was the black-haired man from Olivia’s wake.
The reporter was asking her another question, but Bridget didn’t hear it. She’d locked eyes with the man across the room. He smiled a bit—that too-familiar smile. A chill rushed through Bridget.
Had he been the one peeking into her window at three o’clock this morning? Did he have the same little smile on his handsome face when he was watching her then?
“Bridget?” the reporter was saying. “Ms. Corrigan?”
A camera flash went off, blinding her for a moment.
She rubbed her eyes, then glanced toward the door again. He wasn’t there.
“Are you all right, Ms. Corrigan?” the reporter asked.
Bridget got to her feet, then anxiously glanced around the room. At least twenty people filled the hospitality suite. The black-haired man was no longer among them.
By the darkroom’s faint red light, he studied the sheet of Kodak paper in the pan full of solution. The image of Bridget Corrigan’s face slowly emerged on the white paper.
He’d taken several candid shots of her in the hospitality room, and a dozen more during the luncheon speech. She’d translated Brad Corrigan’s words for the Spanish-speaking attendees, which made
Frowning, Bridget glanced around the hotel room, then finally stared down at the burgundy carpet. “Oh God, Brad,” she murmured. “I wasn’t even thinking about that. I’m so sorry.”
He put his arm around her. “No, I should be apologizing to you. I keep thinking about what happened to you last night. If you weren’t helping me with this campaign, you wouldn’t have these creeps coming up to your house, peeking in your windows at three o’clock in the morning.”
Brad hugged her, and she held on to him for a moment. Then the phone rang again.
Sighing, Brad got to his feet, went to the door, and called in Shelley, Chad, and Claudio from the hotel’s hallway. Within a few moments, the hospitality suite was under siege again—with phones ringing, people talking over one another, and hotel staff and campaign volunteers going in and out. Then someone let in a few reporters and photographers. “It’s hold-on-to-your-purse time,” Bridget whispered to her assistant. That was their private, not-so-funny joke, referring to a similar scene weeks ago in another crowded hospitality room, where Shelley’s purse had been stolen.
“No kidding,” Shelley replied, under her breath. She had her purse tucked under her arm. “It’s like the ship-cabin scene in that Marx Brothers movie. All that’s missing is the maid and the manicurist.”
Camera flashes were going off. Someone thrust a microphone in front of Bridget’s face. “When you were just kids together, Bridget, did you ever think your brother would grow up to run for senator?” a perky blond reporter asked.
“Oh, as far back as grade school, I figured he was headed for great things,” Bridget responded, putting on a smile. “Brad was always very popular—with everyone. He was president of this and that, captain of practically every team. Even our teachers adored him. I lost track of how many times my teachers asked me, ‘Why can’t you be more like your brother?’ If Brad wasn’t such a wonderful guy, I’d have hated him.”
“And Brad was there for you when your husband left you, wasn’t he?” the reporter asked.
“Um, yes, he was.” Bridget managed to keep smiling. She didn’t want to go into details with this reporter about her marriage failing. Bridget nervously glanced around the crowded room, and hoped the woman would change her line of questioning.
Among all the people, she saw a man standing against the wall—near the doorway. He stared back at her. It was the black-haired man from Olivia’s wake.
The reporter was asking her another question, but Bridget didn’t hear it. She’d locked eyes with the man across the room. He smiled a bit—that too-familiar smile. A chill rushed through Bridget.
Had he been the one peeking into her window at three o’clock this morning? Did he have the same little smile on his handsome face when he was watching her then?
“Bridget?” the reporter was saying. “Ms. Corrigan?”
A camera flash went off, blinding her for a moment.
She rubbed her eyes, then glanced toward the door again. He wasn’t there.
“Are you all right, Ms. Corrigan?” the reporter asked.
Bridget got to her feet, then anxiously glanced around the room. At least twenty people filled the hospitality suite. The black-haired man was no longer among them.
By the darkroom’s faint red light, he studied the sheet of Kodak paper in the pan full of solution. The image of Bridget Corrigan’s face slowly emerged on the white paper.
He’d taken several candid shots of her in the hospitality room, and a dozen more during the luncheon speech. She’d translated Brad Corrigan’s words for the Spanish-speaking attendees, which made
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