Constance Wright was featured in many of the photographs. Seeing her gave Rachel chills. She was so animated, full of life. Nicholas Drummond looked tired. Irritated. By this point, he’d been sleeping with Isabelle Robles and was likely counting the days until he could formalize his split.
Rachel created a folder on her desktop and saved every photo featuring either Sam Wickersham or Caroline Drummond. Three hundred photos in, and that Instagram photo was still the only one where they’d been photographed together.
Rachel’s eyes were bleary. She downed two more cups of green tea, then turned the thermostat in the living room down to sixty-two degrees to keep her chilly and awake. The photographs were blurring together. Fancy people in fancy clothing eating fancy food in a fancy hall.
The first ray of sunlight shocked her. It slipped underneath the drawn curtains and cast a faint yellow glow across the living room. She had lost all track of time. The tea was ineffective. Rachel put on a pot of coffee, then went back to the computer.
She rubbed her eyes, knowing her time was limited. The kids would be awake soon. She had fewer than fifty photographs to go. And it dawned on Rachel that she might come up empty.
Then, with twenty photos to go, she found what she was looking for.
The photograph was of two couples, each in their midfifties. The men decked out in tuxedos, the women clothed in gorgeous, shimmering dresses, jewelry dripping from their necks and ears. They were all grinning from ear to ear and wearing large red, white, and blue pins that read “The Wright Way.”
But Rachel didn’t care about the partygoers, their attire, or the pins. What she cared about was going on in the background. Slightly out of focus, but unmistakable.
In the corner stood Sam Wickersham and Caroline Drummond. His hand was placed gently on her stomach, a touch that appeared light but incredibly intimate. Her hand grasped his tie. Rachel zoomed in. The striations in the blue fabric on his tie said to Rachel that Caroline was pulling on his tie, gently. Pulling him toward her.
Her palm lay flat on his chest, half pushing him away. Being coy.
Come closer, but not too close.
Rachel had no doubt that Sam Wickersham and Caroline Drummond had been sleeping together. Rachel went back through all the Google Image photos of Caroline. In none of them did she appear to be wearing a wedding ring, and there was no indent or tan line that would indicate a previous marriage.
Caroline was ten years older than Sam. But they both appeared smitten.
Rachel rubbed her eyes, pinched her arm until it hurt, willed herself to stay awake.
The young man who’d come forward about having an affair with Constance Wright had also been sleeping with Wright’s sister-in-law? Sam Wickersham may have been kind of cute, in a shaggy-dog kind of way, but he didn’t seem to Rachel to be the kind of heartbreaker who could seduce two older, successful women.
Had Caroline Drummond been using him? If so, for what?
Just as Rachel was about to start searching for those answers, she heard the door to Megan’s room open. She listened as her daughter shuffled out of her room and down the stairs. She wore her Wonder Woman pj’s, and her hair was a glorious bed-headed mess. Megan rubbed her eyes and smiled.
“Morning, sweetheart,” Rachel said. “How’d you sleep?”
“I had a dream I was a famous author,” Megan said. “Everyone loved my Sadie Scout books.”
“Aw, that’s so wonderful, sweetheart. I bet one day it’ll come true.”
“You think so? You think people will like Sadie?”
Rachel nodded. “I do.”
Then Megan’s smile changed. She looked confused. “Mom?”
“Yes, hon?”
“Weren’t you wearing those clothes when we got home last night?”
Rachel looked down and realized to her embarrassment she’d never changed.
“I guess I was, sweetie.”
“Did you sleep in your clothes?”
“Not really. Mommy had some work to do, and, well, I didn’t really go to bed.”
“That’s weird,” Megan said. “I don’t know why you wouldn’t go to bed.”
Then another door opened, and Eric sauntered downstairs. He was wearing mesh basketball shorts and a Stephen Curry jersey.
“Morning,” Rachel said.
Eric stood at the bottom of the stairs and cocked his head.
“Mom,” he said, “did you go to bed last night?”
“No, unfortunately I had work to do.”
Eric nodded, a disapproving scowl on his face; then he turned around and went back upstairs. Megan shuddered as his door slammed shut.
“What’s wrong with him?” Megan said.
“Nothing,” Rachel replied. Her daughter came over, and Rachel gathered her into her arms. “There’s nothing wrong with him at all.”
Rachel wondered if Megan knew she was lying.
CHAPTER 28
Rachel had four strong cups of coffee pumping through her veins by the time she arrived at the offices of Velos Strategies, a political consulting firm that also happened to employ one Samuel J. Wickersham. She parked on the second floor of a public garage and entered through the walkway into the office building where Velos was housed. She wore a gray pantsuit over a white blouse, large quantities of concealer hiding the dark circles under her eyes.
She walked up to the curved glass-topped security desk. The guard eyed her, knowing she didn’t work there, and said, “Photo ID, name of company, and person visiting.”
Rachel handed over her driver’s license and said, “I’m here to see Sam Wickersham at Velos.”
The man nodded and scanned her ID. Then he tapped a few buttons on his computer.
“I don’t see you registered as a guest. Do you have an appointment with Mr. Wickersham?”
“He must have forgotten to add it in the system. Call Mr. Wickersham and tell him Caroline Drummond is here to see him. He’ll clear it up.”
“Your identification says Rachel Marin.”
“Sam and I are old friends. Trust me, he’ll know what I’m talking about.”
The guard eyed her suspiciously, then nodded and picked up the phone. He dialed, waited, and then said, “Mr. Wickersham, there’s a Caroline Drummond here to see you. Um, yes, that’s what she said. Ms. Drummond. Caroline Drummond. All right, thank you, Mr. Wickersham.”
The guard tapped a few buttons, then handed Rachel a sticker that read GUEST. “Take the second elevator bank to the sixth floor, Miss . . . whatever your name is.”
Rachel thanked him and followed the instructions. The receptionist at Velos was a young blonde woman who appeared to be barely a day out of college. She seemed both bored and angry about her boredom. She didn’t look up when Rachel approached.
“Help you?” she said.
“Here to see Sam Wickersham.”
“Name?”
“Caroline Drummond. He’s expecting me.”
She picked up the phone, pressed a button, and said, “Mr. Sam, there’s a Caroline something here to see you. OK, hots, you got it.”
Rachel wondered if calling Sam “hots” meant they were hooking up or if that was just how millennials greeted each other these days.
“Give him a minute,” the girl said. “He comes quickly.”