Chapter 15: The Whitbread Club

The invitation came by courier to the diner, on cream card with a gold edge.

Lunch, Friday, one o'clock. The Whitbread Club. Come alone, Hallie. We should talk like women.

My mother read it over my shoulder and said a word I'd never heard her say in public.

"You are not going."

"I am," I said. "I want to hear what she says when she thinks I'm beaten."

I put my phone in the pocket of my blazer with the voice memo already running.

The Whitbread Club was on the top floor of a downtown tower, with white tablecloths and a view of the river.

The tables were full.

I saw a judge I knew from the news and two men from the Governor's staff.

A woman who had been at the gala in a green dress sat at the next table to Whitney's.

They all looked at me when I walked in, and then they all looked at their plates.

Whitney sat at a corner table with a glass of water and a folded napkin.

She stood and kissed the air beside my cheek.

"Thank you for coming. Sit. The sole is very good."

"I'm not eating."

"Then you'll watch me."

She ordered for herself, and the waiter went away.

She laid her hands on the cloth.

"I owe you an apology for the photograph," she said. "That was not me. A reporter found it."

"Dalton took that photograph."

"Dalton took what I asked him to take."

She said it lightly, and I realized she wasn't going to bother lying about anything.

"I would like to settle this," she said. "I have drawn up a proposal."

She slid a leather folder across the tablecloth.