The Last Invitation (4)
The officers looked at each other before Detective Schone spoke again. “Yes, of course. We’re wondering if you had any indication that something like this might happen. Maybe in his mood, or possibly something he said to you?”
This? The question made no sense to Gabby. “What are you talking about?”
The detective’s hands tightened around the glass she was holding. “We’ll get more information later, of course, but initial indications point to suicide.”
“God, no.” Gabby fought through the confused and conflicting thoughts pummeling her. How secretive he’d become at the end of their marriage. The can’t-be-touched showmanship he deployed during the divorce. He’d changed from the man she married until he became this businessman who thrived on being difficult.
The detective put her glass to the side before starting again. “Some people deal with long-term depression. Others have desperate thoughts that are more situational in nature, stemming from a bad business deal, for example. Loneliness or disappointment. Divorce is a loss, even if someone wants out.”
Understatement. “Baines would never kill himself.” The idea was . . . laughable. It took all the composure Gabby could muster not to give in to her nerves, make a joke, and accidentally make herself a target.
“Do you know if there was a gun in the house?” Detective Schone asked.
But . . . no. Gabby shook her head. “You’re not getting this.”
The detective sat back in her chair. “Enlighten us.”
Gabby had no idea why it was so important to her that they understand the man who right now might be in a body bag, but it was. “I don’t know how my life ended up here. That will take years of therapy for me to figure out.” Off track. Gabby fought to find her way back to the topic through all the fragments of memories and dizzying surprise flooding through her. “That doesn’t matter. The point is my ex-husband loved himself far too much to deprive the world of his existence.”
Silence followed the comment. Even a guy in the hall glanced up.
“People don’t usually beg us to declare a homicide has occurred then paint themselves as an angry suspect.” The detective’s voice carried a not-so-subtle warning.
“I didn’t do it. Yes, he made me furious, and I might have joked about . . . but I didn’t. Never. I couldn’t.” Gabby took in their unconvinced stares and regretted her nervous laugh and racing mouth. They would not pin this on her. Gabby refused to let that happen. She’d fought all her life and she wouldn’t stop now. “What about the other person?”
They stared at her.
“There was someone else was in the room when I walked in,” Gabby said, growing more confident in the declaration the longer she talked. The strange sound and odd sensation right before she blacked out. “Someone attacked me.”
Chapter Five
The Foundation
They met on the second Tuesday of the month. Members only.
A month had passed since they’d last assembled at the massive property tucked behind a high wall and locked gate. Over the years, the owners of the historic home had welcomed presidents, political operatives, and Supreme Court justices. The structure’s size still confused many passersby into thinking it was a school. Little did they know the people inside used the spectacular house to carry out spectacular work.
Inclusion in the private group grew out of a carefully curated list and remained limited. No one could wander in or bring a guest. Potential new members—something of a rarity, for obvious reasons—had to pass a rigorous background check and be vetted by more than one existing member.
The rules required that the vote to consider issuing an invitation be unanimous, followed by a probationary period where the potential candidate underwent an assessment then another vote before the formal invitation. All of this occurred without the candidate ever knowing they were being considered for membership. That was the only way for an ongoing enterprise like this to work. Strict compliance. Complete secrecy. Unbending commitment.
No one had passed the intense scrutiny or been considered for membership in more than two years. Until now.
The monthly agenda didn’t allow for a lot of socializing, but at the start of each meeting the members talked about families and work as they settled into oversized chairs in what used to be the music room of the three-story white stone mansion in Chevy Chase, Maryland, just outside of Washington, DC. The one with the split staircase in the entry and the second-floor grand ballroom, complete with an orchestra pit.
This brief initial icebreaking time worked as a bridge between their lives out there and the work they did in this room. Those precious ten minutes, never longer, allowed for the pressures of the day to ease and a calming breath before handling an ever-growing list of serious business.
They were busy women. Some drank wine after a long, tedious day. Others stuck to water, wanting top mental acuity for the meeting. None took what they did for granted.
“Let’s get started.” As usual, that was enough to stop the talk and begin the meeting. “A motion has been made to reconsider an individual for membership. The previous two votes were not unanimous. We must begin—”
“Dissecting her life and testing her endurance.”
A round of murmurs and seat shifting followed the statement from the back of the room. Most of the women turned to the files in front of them. Some sat almost at attention, as if excited to weigh in.