Annabel
It’s eight p.m. when I get dropped off by my Lyft driver in front of the Senator’s house. It’s a showy, manicured estate in Georgetown. Much nicer than a former CIA director turned senator should be able to afford. He must come from money.
I clutch my attaché case and walk up the sidewalk. The door swings wide and the senator steps out with a warm smile.
“Annabel Gray. Come in, come in. You have your father’s eyes.”
“Do I?”
“Come in, have a seat.” He gestures to an overstuffed sofa. “My wife is out tonight, but I can play host. Would you like something to drink?”
“No, nothing.”
He sits down in the chair beside me and balances one ankle on his knee. “I’m glad we finally get to meet. Are you feeling better?”
“Yes. Actually, I lied when I said I had the stomach flu. Someone tr
