The President's Daughter - Mariah Stewart [75]
Jude sat down, then somewhat tentatively put her arm around Dina’s shoulders. When Dina did not push her away, Jude rested Dina’s head on her shoulder, as she had done so many times in the past when her daughter was hurting.
“I’ve never felt this kind of anger before. It’s frightening me, it’s so enormous. It’s overshadowing everything else right now. But at the same time, I know that I can’t not love you, Mom. Whatever else is true, I can’t not think of you as my mother.”
“Thank you, darling.” Jude stroked Dina’s hair, filled with gratitude for this unexpected gift. It was more than she’d ever dared hope for.
Together they sat, wrapped in the morning. There would be time to talk more later, time for more questions and more answers, for the airing of more anger and the shedding of more tears.
But right now, the bit of warmth they drew from the silence and their mutual pain brought some momentary comfort, some little bit of strength, and that would have to suffice.
A third of a box of tissues later, Dina said, “Last night you said that Blythe’s death was not an accident. How did she die?”
“It was a hit-and-run on a dark street.”
“Like last night?”
“Very much like last night.”
“How do you know it wasn’t an accident?”
“There was evidence to suggest that she was run over not once, but twice.” Jude swallowed hard. “By the same car.”
“Mom, that’s horrible! Did they ever find the person who ran her over?”
“No.”
“You don’t think that the same person . . . ?”
“I don’t know what to think at this point.” Jude shook her head. “Maybe it’s the same person; maybe the person who drove the car that killed Blythe was working with someone else. I don’t know what to think anymore.”
“You don’t think that Simon had anything to do with this, do you?” Dina asked.
“Someone could have followed him. Maybe someone is afraid that the story will get out after all these years.”
“But after all these years, why would it matter?”
“I can think of a number of reasons why it would matter. I imagine Hayward’s family would not want this to be made public. Especially if, as they say, Graham’s son—he’s a congressman from Rhode Island—is thinking about running for the presidency.”
“Do they know about me? The Haywards?”
“Mrs. Hayward may have known about Blythe. I don’t know if the Hayward kids ever knew.”
“How many children did he have?”
“Two. Graham Junior and a daughter. I don’t recall her name at the moment.”
“I guess it wouldn’t help to tell the local police this story.”
“How could I do that without telling them everything? And the truth being what it is, who’d believe me?” Jude picked a spent blossom from a pot of early pansies.
“We have to tell someone, Mom. I don’t know about you, but I didn’t take Conspiracy One-o-one. I don’t know how to tell if I’m being followed and I wouldn’t know what to do if someone jumped me from behind. I think we’re out of our league, especially since we don’t know who or what we’re dealing with.”
“Maybe you’re right.” Jude nodded. “But first we’d have to convince someone that this is all true.”
“Simon Keller already knows it’s true. And by now, he might even have an idea of who might be involved.”
“I don’t know how much I trust him.”
“I trust him, Mom.”
“Dina, for heaven’s sake, the man is a reporter. He’s writing a book—and we don’t know at this point just what he plans to put into that book, do we?”
“If what you’re telling me is true, Simon has known about this for several weeks. I haven’t seen anything on the news. There’s been no tabloid reporter at my front door. Simon didn’t even tell me.”
“I suspect that even some reporters have scruples. And besides, it isn’t the sort of thing one brings up to someone one doesn’t really know. That would be . . . tacky.”
“ ‘Tacky’ doesn’t usually stop reporters from asking questions. I think he was being considerate of me.”
“Because he’s attracted to you,” Jude said flatly.
“I hope so. I sincerely do, ’cause God knows I’m attracted to him. More than I’ve been attracted to anyone in a very long time. But I