The Kingmaker & I

The Empty Chair

Present Day

Eliza

No wineglass. No bottle. No sign he'd even been there at all.

Only her recorder sat on the table, looking like hell now. The surface was corroded, eaten away by something that hadn't touched it before. Even the red wine stain she'd spilled had disappeared from the tablecloth. Just clean white linen and the sick feeling that something really wrong had just gone down.

She grabbed the recorder. The thing was freezing, like it had been sitting in a snowbank, and when she picked it up, she could swear it shook in her hand.

Real. Whatever the hell just happened had left a mark. Physical. Undeniable.

A waiter walked over. Different guy from the one who'd poured her wine earlier. Same black uniform, same fancy service attitude, but his face showed zero recognition.

"Excuse me, miss. Can I get you anything else? Perhaps some coffee? Dessert?" he said, polite but confused.

She blinked. "The man I was with. Where did he go?"

The waiter's smile faded.

"I'm sorry, but you've been sitting alone since you arrived."

"That's not..." She stopped herself. Pressed her palm flat against the table to steady herself, the room, her racing pulse. "Never mind. The check, please."

"Already settled, miss. Have a good evening."

Of course it was. She didn't ask who paid. She already knew, and asking would mean saying his name out loud in a room that just told her he was never there.

Outside, the Georgetown night had turned mean. Wind cut down the narrow streets, carrying exhaust, the promise of snow, and something older. Something that smelled like blood and metal and made her Warren instincts fire up like warning bells down her spine. Every shadow felt alive, like something ancient was watching from the dark with endless patience.

She reached her BMW on shaky legs, her migraine hammering against her skull. The streetlights looked wrong, halos blooming behind her eyes. She sat behind the wheel for a full minute before she trusted her hands enough to start the engine. She gripped the steering wheel like she used to grip the wall in the Metro, anchoring herself to something solid in a world that just proved it wasn't.

Her phone buzzed.

Unknown Number: Some bloodlines carry destinies they can't escape. Looking forward to our next conversation, Eliza. L.V.

She stared at the screen until the message burned into her vision. White text on black screen leaving ghosts in her eyes. Her thumb hovered over Delete, then moved to Save. She added it to the encrypted folder she'd started after the Townsend case turned into something stranger than corruption. Something out of a nightmare.

Because despite every rational bone in her body screaming at her to walk away, despite every instinct telling her this is how journalists disappear, she knew she would keep going.

Lazarus Varnum hadn't tried to intimidate her. He'd tried to warn her off. To steer her away.

What was worth that much effort?

Her grandfather had died trying to expose something. Senator Townsend had been erased for discovering it. And now it had come for her, coiling like a hundred year old debt in her inbox and under her skin.

And some smaller, more dangerous question sat underneath all of it, one she wasn't ready to look at straight on. Why did part of her want to go back.

She merged onto Rock Creek Parkway. Washington glowed around her like a city built on lies. The monuments stood tall like always, silent witnesses to two hundred years of ambition and backstabbing. Her phone rang.

Marcus.

She answered. The name felt like an anchor to reality. To now.

"Eliza? We still good for tonight? Because what I found on your boy Varnum is gonna blow your mind," Marcus said.

Her voice came out wrong, frayed at the edges, like a recording played on a busted tape player.

"Marcus. How much do you know about the Jekyll Island meeting of 1910?"

A pause.

"That Federal Reserve thing? Why are we jumping back a hundred years when we're supposed to be chasing down defense contract shell games?"

"Because I don't think they're different stories."

This time the pause stretched longer. When he spoke again, his voice had that careful tone he used for friends on the edge.

"Eliza, are you okay? You sound..."

"I'm fine." Lie. Not fine, not even close. Her hands were still shaking on the wheel, and the cold from his touch hadn't left her skin yet. "I'll explain everything when I get home. But Marcus, listen to me. Be careful. I think we're being watched by people with resources we can't track. Maybe can't even understand."

"Watched by who?"

She thought of Varnum's ice cold fingers and those perfect teeth. Thought of the way he'd said Marcus's name without ever hearing it. Thought, against her better judgment, of the heat that had pooled low in her stomach when he touched her wrist. She hated herself a little for thinking about it at all while Marcus's voice, worried and warm and completely human, was in her ear.

"By people who've been playing this game longer than we've been alive."

"Eliza, you're scaring me."

"Good. Stay scared until I get there. Lock the door, Marcus. I mean it. I'll be there in twenty minutes," she said.

"Twenty minutes," he repeated, like he was holding her to it, like saying it back was the only way to make himself believe she'd actually show up. "I'll have the coffee on."

She hung up before he could ask more questions, before her voice could give away more than it already had.

The drive back through Georgetown was slow and quiet. She barely saw the townhouses and embassies sliding past. Inherited destinies, Varnum had said. The Warren women always uncover what others try to bury.

God help me, she thought, pulling up in front of her apartment as the wind rattled the dead tree branches. God help me, I'm going to find out what really happened to Senator Townsend. I'm going to expose Lazarus Varnum and whatever nightmare he represents.

Even if it kills me.

Because Warren women didn't back down.

Not from monsters.

Not from history.

Not even from forever.