The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [130]
“This isn’t your house, is it?” Lisbeth asked.
Violet stopped in the small, cluttered kitchen. A child-size plastic Cinderella table sat next to a full-size faux-wood one. Half a dozen photos cluttered the refrigerator door. Again, everyone was white.
“And your name’s not Debbie Schopf, is it?” Lisbeth added.
“Leave Debbie out of this—”
“Violet, if she’s your friend . . .”
“She’s just doing me a favor.”
“Violet . . .”
“Please don’t drag her in— Oh, God,” Violet said, shielding her eyes with her hand. It was the first time Lisbeth got a look at the thin gold wedding band on Violet’s ring finger. The one detail Lisbeth believed.
“Listen,” Lisbeth said, touching Violet’s shoulder. “You listening? I’m not here to catch you or trap you or drag your friends in. I swear. I just need to know if what you said about Dreidel—”
“I didn’t make it up.”
“No one thinks you did.”
“You just said my name wouldn’t be used. You told me that.”
“And I stand by it, Violet,” Lisbeth said, knowing the fake name put her at ease. “No one knows I’m here. Not my editor, not my colleagues, nobody. But let’s remember: You invited me here for a reason. What Dreidel did to you . . . when he raised his hand—”
“He didn’t raise his hand! He put his fist in my face, then gashed me with the mirror!” Violet erupted, her fear quickly smothered by rage. “That bastard hurt me so bad I had to tell my mother I was in a car accident! She believed it too—after I kicked my headlight in to prove it! But when I saw him in the paper . . . If he thinks I’m just gonna keep it all quiet while he holds himself out there as State Senator Boy Scout . . . Oh, no, no, no!”
“I hear you, Violet—I do. But you need to understand, I can’t do anything, I can’t even help you, until I verify it. Now you said you had proof. Are they photos or—?”
“Photos? Even when he’s dumb, Dreidel’s not that stupid.” Leaving the kitchen, Violet headed into the family room, where beige vertical blinds kept the last bits of sun from peeking through the sliding glass doors. Taking a moment to calm down, she put her five fingertips against the center of her chest.
“Y’okay?” Lisbeth asked.
“Yeah, just—just hating the past a little, know what I mean?”
“You kidding? I even hate the present.”
It was an easy joke, but exactly what Violet needed to catch her breath. “When we first—y’know, when we started,” she said, kneeling down and fishing under the L-shaped flower-print sofa, “I wasn’t even allowed to ask him about work. But these White House boys . . . they’re no different than the money boys in Palm Beach or Miami or anywhere . . . all egomaniacs love to talk about themselves,” she added as she tugged a small pile of paperwork from under the sofa. Bound by a thick rubber band, it looked like a stack of catalogs and mail. As Violet whipped off the rubber band, the pile fanned out across the cream-colored Formica coffee table.
“President Manning’s Remarks for APEC Summit. Signed program from the Moroccan king’s funeral . . .” Skimming through the pile, Violet rattled them off one by one. “Look at this—personal business card of the owner of the Miami Dolphins with his direct dial and cell numbers handwritten on the back, along with a note that says Mr. President, Let’s play golf. Asshole.”
“I don’t understand. Dreidel left this stuff here?”
“Left it? He gave it to me. Proudly gave it to me. I don’t know, it was his pathetic way of proving he was actually by the President’s side. Every time he visited, I’d get another piece from the presidential junk drawer: Manning’s handwritten lunch orders, scorecards from when he played bridge, military coins, crossword puzzles, luggage tags—”
“What’d you say?”
“Luggage tags?”
“Crossword puzzles,” Lisbeth repeated as she sat next to Violet on the couch and leaned toward the pile on the coffee table.
“Oh, I definitely got one,” Violet replied, digging through the stack. “Manning was a nut at those. Dreidel said he could do a full puzzle while chatting on the phone with— Ah, here we go,” she added, pulling an old folded-up newspaper