her window, out enjoying the warm summer night.
The hundred-thousand deposit had been wired into her account. Janssen must have prearranged the transfer.
Libby had never made such money.
And it was just the beginning.
She’d memorized Janssen’s list of targets and burned it, flushing the ashes down her toilet.
Knowing his enemies—and eliminating them—would help her to understand his network and, in time, replace him.
His arrest was inevitable, just a bit earlier than she’d hoped for. Some Dutch Goody Two-shoes must have recognized him and called the police.
The balding man—who was he? Closing her eyes, Libby breathed deeply and tried not to feel as if she were suffocating, told herself the balding man didn’t matter. Only her plan did, her next target. The thrill of her work had satisfied her in the beginning. Now she wanted more.
Money.
Power.
She smiled to herself, relaxing, feeling in control at last.
Three
Nate Winter came home to find secret service agents crawling all over his house, a reminder of just how much his life had changed in the past four months.
His fiancée, Sarah Dunnemore, was on the back porch having peach cobbler with President John Wesley Poe, who regarded her as the daughter he’d never had. Being together brought out their Southern accents.
Nate had a feeling he knew why Poe was there.
Nick Janssen.
The rich, murdering bastard was finally in custody.
It was hot even on the shaded porch, but the two Tennesseans didn’t seem to mind. While looking for a home of their own in northern Virginia, Nate and Sarah were living in a corner of an 1850s historic house she was researching and getting ready to open to the public. Supposedly it was haunted by both Abraham Lincoln and Robert E. Lee. Poe liked to joke that he wished he could ask both men for advice. But Sarah, a historical archaeologist, was serious about her ghosts.
Before they’d met, Nate had been a senior deputy U.S. Marshal dedicated to catching fugitives and not much else.
He was still a marshal, he was still dedicated to his work—but now he could come home to Sarah, ghosts, peach cobbler and the occasional presidential visit.
“Mr. President,” Nate said, “it’s good to see you.”
Poe, already on his feet, put out his hand, and the two men shook. “It’s good to see you, too, Nate. Sarah’s ruining my diet with her peach cobbler.”
Nate had helped her pick the peaches from one of the trees in the old house’s sprawling yard, knowing she expected to make jam one evening. The cobbler meant she was upset, because otherwise she’d still be up to her elbows in the hundred-year-old dump she’d found out back and was in the process of excavating. When she was upset, she dug out family recipes, usually ones involving a lot of butter.
Her gray eyes connected with Nate’s for a split second, enough to tell him that Poe’s visit hadn’t been her idea. She had on cropped jeans and a tank top, barefoot even for peach cobbler with the president.
As welcome as it was, Janssen’s arrest had brought back the trauma of her ordeal last spring. Her twin brother badly injured in a sniper-style attack in Central Park, a killer on the loose in Night’s Landing, the Dunnemore family’s Tennessee home, their refuge. John Wesley Poe happened to have grown up next door.
Sarah was fair-haired and beautiful, and Nate—tall, lean, impatient—hated for those dark days to prey on her again. But he’d learned that Sarah Dunnemore wasn’t an ivory tower intellectual who wanted to remain aloof from life. She dove in, sometimes without looking.
“I stopped by to see how Sarah had taken the news of the Janssen arrest,” Poe said. “And Rob. I wondered how he was doing.”
“I haven’t talked to him yet,” Sarah said. “I called my parents a little while ago—they’re fine.”
“I tried to reach Rob on his cell phone earlier,” Nate said. “He didn’t answer. I left a message.”
“How is he recuperating from his injuries?” Poe asked.
Sarah dabbed at the ice cream melting onto her cobbler. “He’s doing well, but he’s frustrated because his recovery took longer than he expected. At least he’s back to his triathlon training.”
Swimming, running, biking. From all accounts, Rob was as fit now as he’d been before the shooting. But he’d endured a weeks-long media barrage. Now the whole world knew that he’d graduated from Georgetown and spoke seven languages, that he and his twin sister were like the son and daughter President Poe had never had. Rob often came off in media reports as a silver-spoon, Southern frat boy, but nothing about him was that simple.
“Is he back on the street?” Poe asked.
Nate shook his head. “Not yet.”
The president sighed heavily. “I worry about him.”
Which, Nate knew, Rob would hate. Sarah knew it, too, but she nodded with understanding. “It’s hard not to worry.”
“Janssen’s arrest will fire up the media again. I hate to see him go through that. They’ll rehash everything that happened in May.” Poe winced. “They’ll be calling you, too, Sarah. And your parents.”
“The marshals have sent someone to Night’s Landing in case it gets crazy. If any reporters show up here, I can handle them.” She smiled and licked her spoon. “I’ll have Bobby Lee or Abe talk to them.”
Nate could see Poe forcing himself to relax. “I never know when you’re serious—”
“Every resident of this house since 1875 swears the two of them are haunting the place. I take that seriously.” She rose, calmer now herself, and grabbed her bowl. “Are you going to eat your cobbler, Wes? Because if not, I’ll take it into the house before the flies get to it. There’s no wasting fresh peach cobbler around here.”
That elicited a real smile. “Can I take it with me?”
She beamed. A Ph.D. with academic credits up and down both arms, and she loved getting compliments for her cooking. “I’ll go wrap it up.”
When he heard the screen door shut, Wes breathed out, any hint of a smile gone. “Nate—I hope you’ll tell Rob he can call me anytime. I’ll make sure he’s put through right away.”
“He knows that, Mr. President.”
The older man nodded. “I’d like to think so. I’d like to think that now that our families’ relationship is common knowledge—” He seemed to fight for the right words. “That it won’t ruin his life.”
Nate had no idea what to say.
A secret service agent stood on
