Chapter 8 - The Poisoned Apple of Society
Rachel Lane believed she was the new queen of Boston.
She sat in the center of the luncheon at the Ritz-Carlton,
surrounded by the wives of the city’s most influential men.
She was wearing a cream-colored dress that cost more than most people made in a year.
She was talking about her new foundation for ‘at-risk youth.’
It was a classic move.
The sinner trying to buy a reputation with charity.
“We just want to give back,”
Rachel said,
her voice tinkling like wind chimes.
“Michael and I have been so blessed.”
“And after the…
tragedy we went through with our former friend…”
She paused,
dabbing at a non-existent tear in the corner of her eye.
“Well,
we just feel that everyone deserves a second chance.”
The women at the table nodded sympathetically.
They were sharks,
of course,
but they loved a good redemption story.
Then,
the waiter arrived.
He was carrying a silver tray with a single,
unwrapped gift.
“Mrs. Lane?”
the waiter asked.
Rachel looked up,
surprised.
“Yes?”
“A delivery for you.”
“The sender asked that you open it immediately.”
Rachel smiled at the women around her.
“Oh, Michael is such a romantic.”
“He’s always sending little surprises.”
She reached out and took the item from the tray.
It was an old,
scuffed baseball.
The leather was peeling.
The stitching was coming undone.
Rachel’s face went from radiant to ghostly white in a fraction of a second.
She dropped the ball as if it were a burning coal.
It bounced off the white tablecloth and rolled toward the wife of the Governor.
The woman picked it up,
frowning.
“A baseball?”
she asked.
“What an odd gift, Rachel.”
“Is there a card?”
There was no card.
But written on the ball in thick,
black ink were two words:
INNING FOUR.
Rachel’s breath hitched.
She looked around the room,
her eyes frantic.
She was looking for me.
She was looking for the woman she had betrayed.
“I…
I have to go,”
Rachel stammered,
knocking over her water glass as she stood up.
“I’m not feeling well.”
She practically ran from the ballroom,
the whispers of the other women following her like a wake.
I was standing in the lobby,
watching through the crack of the double doors.
I wasn't wearing the blue velvet today.
I was wearing a simple uniform—the same as the hotel staff.
Julian stood beside me,
holding a clipboard.
“That was cruel,”
he whispered.
“No,”
I said,
watching Rachel’s retreating back.
“That was a reminder.”
“She thinks she can bury the past in cream-colored silk.”
“I’m here to tell her that the past has a long memory.”
“And we’re only in the fourth inning, Rachel.”
“There’s a lot of game left to play.”
Julian looked at me,
and for a moment,
I saw a flicker of concern in his eyes.
“Don’t lose yourself in this, Evelyn.”
“I lost myself three years ago, Julian,”
I said.
“What you see now is just the ghost.”
“And ghosts don't have anything to lose.”
I turned and walked toward the service exit.
I had work to do.
May you like
The Davenport bid was about to go live.
And Michael Lane was about to realize that he had brought a knife to a gunfight.
