Chapter 8
Crocheting and Blackmail
Finally, it was two o’clock. Ottilie had survived the morning’s indignity of The Photo. She had dutifully texted it to Hannah despite being well aware there would be jokes at her expense. Apparently, she wanted Hannah to be happy, which wasn’t exactly new.
She had become extremely protective of the charming eighty-four year old. At first, Ottilie had wondered if it was just a case of recognizing “there but for the grace of God go I” if circumstances had been different. She hated to imagine her mind withering from boredom, starved of the ability to feed itself due to physical infirmities.
Hannah couldn’t just go and explore her world on her own or, on a whim, pop into a museum or library or gallery. Her limited mobility meant that even just leaving her apartment required help. And if no one was around, as had been the case until recently, she just…stayed there. Watched excessive TV, stared outside, or, with the zeal of a missionary, latched onto any visitor, desperate for intelligent conversation.
What hell that had to be. Ottilie felt that to the core of her being.
As time went on, though, Ottilie had begun to truly value the woman herself. Hannah’s sharp mind was a delight. Her utter joy whenever Ottilie sent her clues on where to meet next filled Ottilie with an unexpected warmth. She did appreciate intelligent people.
Unfortunately, meeting intelligent people wasn’t on her dance card today. Right now, her quarry was more in the rat-cunning category. Well, closer to rat, and every bit the same nuisance.
The Republican Women of Las Vegas group had assembled in Hotel Duxton’s Roaring Twenties function room and appeared excited about their esteemed guest speaker arriving soon.
An upbeat Carrie Jordan medley played in the background as Ottilie, tucked away in one corner, busied herself by crocheting a pawn to go with the bishop she’d completed a few days ago.
The attendees here were an interesting mix of killer businesswomen and wealthy socialites, all perfumed and primed to network. As they waited, a variety of women inquired about Ottilie’s stitching, out of politeness, boredom, or, in one or two cases, genuine interest.
By the time she was deep into double crocheting her pawn—black—t he former senior senator for Massachusetts had taken to the stage to enthusiastic applause.
Phyllis Kensington’s speech sounded like one she was trying on for size somewhere it wouldn’t be reported on. Vegas was far enough out of the usual spheres of influence in which she circulated. While her days of having spheres of influence were over, not so her political ambitions, it seemed.
The gist of her speech was how shocked she’d been to discover the sexual depravities of her cheating husband, who’d enjoyed waving his trysts in her face—to the point that she’d resorted to paying a shady company, The Fixers, to handle him and cover up his misdeeds.
There was a full ten minutes dedicated to the agony she’d gone through when all that sordid, nasty, private business had been made public by the terrible media. Her sharp gaze roamed the room, as if assessing how her half-truths and outright lies were landing.
Her blue eyes narrowed into slits when she discovered Ottilie, who smiled pleasantly and saluted her with her crochet needle.
Hissing in a breath, Kensington finished by explaining how even though she was a victim in all this, caught up in the public mess that was “Fixergate,” wasn’t it always true that women were punished for the bad behavior of men?
There were nods aplenty at that, and for the first time, Kensington smiled. Perhaps she could sense her ambitions weren’t as dead as she feared, that the road to redemption started with a single grassroots speech?
Heaven help us if she’s right.
No word, of course, that she was anything but a victim. That she’d once run The Fixers. But no one knew that beyond about fifty employees and four board members. (Five, if you wanted to get technical. Ottilie did not.)
At the end, Kensington coyly batted away questions of whether she might have another run at politics, turning on the charm. Her magnanimity was practically oozing when asked if she’d provide any new recipes for her famous website, At Home With Phyllis.
“But of course!” she declared gaily. “I can’t wait to share my latest recipes with all my lovely followers.”
Phyllis Kensington did not, in fact, cook. Nor did she, last Ottilie checked, have more than a handful of followers left.
Sensing they were wrapping up, Ottilie carefully packed her crocheting into her Oroton bag and waited. Her quarry would come to her.
As the farewell air-kisses took place, Ottilie checked her phone and discovered a screed of enthusiastic texts from Hannah after receiving the showgirls photo. Her delight made Ottilie’s mild humiliation well worth it.
They’re so beautiful! Look at their postures! The feathers! And you look so like a fish out of water, dear! I laughed so hard, my granddaughter ran in to see if I was having a seizure. She took one look at the photo and said it served you right for being my friend!
Ottilie smirked. Good one, Michelle, she conceded inwardly.
Do you not dance? Have you never danced? Hannah texted next.
No, Ottilie replied. My parents considered anything artistic or creative to be wasted effort.
Oh what a terrible loss! Hannah wrote back. I wish I was fighting fit and my hip wasn’t so bad. I’d love to teach you some moves!
Then: Michelle just saw this text and said you know “plenty of moves” already and adding more to your repertoire is overkill. She also says you should frame that photo. I agree! It’s spectacular.
Ottilie narrowed her eyes and typed her response.
Tell your granddaughter I’ve said she must next explain memes to you, in detail. It’s an important part of texting. Now, I must go. Have a lovely day.
She smiled to herself. Ottilie almost felt sorry for Michelle. They’d likely never be good friends, given their past association. But their gentle tug-of-war over Hannah was friendly enough and amusing them both, it seemed.
A throat cleared impatiently.
Ottilie looked up to see that all the attendees had disappeared. A lone organizer remained, stacking chairs in the distance. The former senator now loomed in front of her, hands curled into loose fists. Defensive. Adversarial.
How interesting. She pushed her phone back into her bag as Kensington dropped, uninvited, into the seat beside her.
“I didn’t take you for a supporter of grassroots political events, Tilly.”
“Ordinarily, no,” she replied, lips thinning at the shortening of her name. “In this instance, I heard who the guest speaker was.”
“Did you fly to Vegas just to see me?” Kensington asked, her blonde eyebrows shooting up to her hairline.
“You have been otherwise uncontactable since the media scandal. But I was here anyway. I’m killing two birds with one stone.”
“ You? Killing something?” Kensington laughed derisively. “How…fanciful. Well, then, you wished to reminisce with me? Since we got on so well when you worked for me.”
Ottilie’s jaw twitched. So many things were wrong with that sentence.
“Well?” Impatience filled her tone now.
“I’m curious,” Ottilie began idly. “How many more of these tedious luncheons will you have to do in order to facilitate a return to politics?”
Kensington’s nostrils flared. “Why do you ask?”
“The voters see you as enabling your husband’s cheating by covering it up, not being a victim.”
“For now. But I’m excellent at reshaping narratives.”
“Yes,” Ottilie conceded, “you are. But how many more pleading speeches would you need to make if everyone knew exactly where you used to work? And in what capacity?”
Kensington stared at her. “Is that why you’re here? Threatening to leak that I was the…” She lowered her voice. “CEO?”
“As a matter of fact, I am. Now, here are the terms.” Ottilie reached into her bag and drew out an envelope. “From the board. Memorize it, as I’ll be taking it back. No paper trail. The most important thing is the people listed, whose names you will forget were ever associated with your former organization.”
Reaching for it, Kensington quickly opened the envelope. After reading The Fixers’s names, she said, “Quite a list. I only recognize ten people on it.”
“Then you will forget those ten names in perpetuity.”
“And if I refuse?”
Ottilie reached for a second envelope. “This is everything we have on you and are prepared to use.”
Kensington tore it open and began shuffling through the pages inside. She gasped and pointed at the third item. Her head snapped up. “You cannot have footage of that .”
“I assure you we do. There was a camera above the desk in the CEO’s office.”
“What?” Kensington’s eyes flew wide open. “You’re bluffing.”
“I do not bluff.” Which the woman would know if Kensington had paid even the faintest attention to Ottilie at work.
Ottilie pulled her tablet out of her bag, hit mute in deference to the distant chair stacker, and then played the recording from the security camera.
While the then CEO, Michelle Hastings, wasn’t visible, Kensington was front and center in the camera’s eye: clearly removing her thong, demanding sex from Hastings, and being shot down acidly.
“It’s far worse with sound,” Ottilie said lazily as the view now showed the former senator fondling herself and making crass comments. “Which I’m sure you’d remember.”
Kensington drew in a long breath.
“I imagine,” Ottilie continued, “that leaking this would be ruinous for your image. Family values. Home-cooked recipes. Church on Sundays.”
Kensington leaned away from the tablet and hissed, “If you leak that, I will make it my life’s mission to destroy you.”
“How?” Ottilie asked, unmoved. “I fail to see what you could do to me.”
“I will tell the world that you worked at The Fixers.”
“As a mere PA. And I left long before all the nasty business came out.”
Kensington’s brow wrinkled. “You did, didn’t you?” An eyebrow lifted. “Your departure’s timing was a little too good, now that I think about it. Did you know The Fixers was going down?”
“I did.”
Kensington eyed her more sharply. “How?”
“Because you were in charge of it. Its demise was inevitable. I could feel the coup brewing for months. You were the worst CEO I’ve ever seen.”
“Excuse me?” Fury flashed in those penetrating eyes. “I was decisive! I had a vision!”
“Yes: to destroy your enemies. None of whom had anything to do with the organization or its aims. You did very little actual work.”
“You’re just bitter.” Kensington folded her arms and scoffed.
“I’m…bitter?” Ottilie choked out. “Why? Because my boss was terrible?”
“I was never less than exceptional. You’re bitter…due to that night.”
Horror iced Ottilie’s veins. “We are not discussing that!”
“Oh?” A knowing, malicious gleam entered Kensington’s eye. She leaned in. “I think,” she said pointedly, “you hated that you wanted it too.”
In a churning, sickening flash, Ottilie’s mind whirled her back to that night.
* * *
Phyllis Kensington hadn’t been CEO of The Fixers more than a few months. They were still getting a feel for each other, but what Ottilie had seen so far hadn’t impressed her. The former senator was mercurial, driven by whims and ego, and was used to absolute obedience.
She’d begun a vendetta against everyone she wanted punished for slights against her before she’d joined The Fixers.
It was an outrageous misuse of company resources; worse, the board had decided to allow Kensington to use staff resources as she liked—“a little leeway while she settles in.”
Yet again, Ottilie felt like Cassandra of Greek myth: destined to always be right but her warnings never heeded. How many times had she cautioned them against hiring Kensington in the first place? She’d all but begged them to see that for all Michelle’s failings—her disrespect to the board—she was still ten times better on a bad day than Kensington was on a good one.
It hadn’t mattered. The board wanted to believe they were right in hiring her. They ignored every red flag. And they told Ottilie to do her best to “make peace” with the new CEO. And she was trying. For weeks, she’d been trying—until that night.
It was seven-thirty, and Ottilie entered the CEO’s office and asked Kensington to sign some paperwork before leaving.
That’s when she caught sight of her: the top three buttons of her blouse askew, hair unraveling from its usual blow-waved perfection. She was arranged sloppily in her chair, as if sitting erect were no longer feasible.
Prickles went up Ottilie’s skin. She disdained drunkenness. A sign of a weak mind.
Voice slurring, Kensington beckoned her closer and ordered, “Sit.” As if Ottilie were little better than a dog.
Reminding herself of the board’s orders, Ottilie dutifully seated herself in the visitor’s chair.
Tutting, Kensington beckoned her to her side of the desk. “I meant here.” She patted the edge of the desk in front of herself. “I need to talk to you, and I don’t want to shout.”
Ottilie cautiously relocated herself to the desk’s edge.
Quick as a flash, Kensington’s chair shot forward. Her hands slid under the hem of Ottilie’s tight tweed skirt, pushing higher up her thighs.
With a bark of protest, Ottilie tried to slap her hands away. “Stop that!”
Kensington ignored her. “Hush, Tilly.” She sounded even more drunk, proving her long lunch had been liquid in nature. Her fingers reached Ottilie’s underwear, and Kensington moaned in crude appreciation . “Oh fuck. Is that silk? Have you been wearing silk panties all this time? For me?”
Squirming, Ottilie finally managed to push away the hands. “Do not touch me!”
“Don’t play hard to get. The way you stare at me…I know it’s mutual. I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw you. Let me have you.”
Ottilie arched backwards and growled. “There is nothing mutual!” She yanked her skirt firmly back into place, then anchored it with her fisted hands stiffly against her sides.
Instead of expressing disappointment or even acknowledgment that she’d made a huge error—and to Ottilie’s incredulity—Kensington slid up her own skirt, pushed aside her G-string, and leaned back in her chair. She began to stroke herself, watching Ottilie with a smug expression.
“What on earth do you think you’re doing!” Ottilie demanded.
“Let me look at you,” Kensington slurred. “Show me your tits if you won’t let me touch you. Undo that blouse for me. Take off your bra. I’m wondering what your nipples look like. Are they luscious and plump like the rest of you? Or tight and hard like mine? Show me. Show me right now!”
Humiliation and fury warred over her response. Ottilie had worked with many morally bankrupt people, but none had ever made her feel like a piece of meat. Face on fire, Ottilie slid from the desk.
Kensington’s long legs shot out straight and bracketed Ottilie hard against the desk drawers.
“No, no, we’re not done.” Kensington’s fingers were a blur between her own legs. “I’m so hot for you. I fantasize about you; did you know that? All efficient and stern and righteous, hunched over your desk, working oh so very hard. It gets me so wet.”
Ottilie swallowed down her disgust. Was this supposed to be a romantic proposition?
Kensington, still ferociously rubbing her clit, said, “I think about bending you over my desk in here. Pushing my fingers into you from behind. Fucking you hard, with your skirt all bunched up at your lovely, thick waist. Trembling for me. Oh, I think of you constantly.”
Fury blew away the shock that had robbed Ottilie of movement, and she slapped Kensington’s leg away with venom. “Fuck you,” she swore and stormed out of the room.
“That was the plan, sugar,” Kensington called after her. “Your loss.”
Red spots appeared before Ottilie’s eyes.
The wet sounds continued behind her as she flew to the elevator and stabbed the Ground button.
* * *
Disgust coated Ottilie’s mouth at the reminder of that night. She liked to be prepared for every eventuality, but that…the disrespect and groping? It hadn’t been anywhere near her radar. She’d been caught so flat-footed.
Had Kensington been a foreign operative or even just a stranger who’d done this, she’d have left them bleeding on the floor.
Her shock, though, had induced something in Ottilie she hated. Just for a moment, she’d frozen . Acted like a cornered animal. With…weakness.
She kept going back to that moment Kensington had trapped her: those icy eyes, like sharp little chips, looking amused in the face of Ottilie’s rising panic.
It had taken months for Ottilie to stop berating herself and to file away the incident in the back of her mind under Regrettable—Never to Be Repeated .
Except, everything had gone to hell afterwards. Her sexual harassment complaint to the board had been met with indifference, as if it had been nothing.
Kensington’s retribution over being rejected had been swift and cruel. Her announcement soon afterward to the entire office that Ottilie was “little more than a glorified typist” had been the opening salvo in a vicious campaign of disrespect.
Now, in the present day, the former senator was gloating once more, staring at Ottilie without a shred of guilt, shame, or even discomfort as she brought up that disturbing night. And she had the audacity to suggest Ottilie had wanted it too?
Why would she say that? Ottilie tried to push aside her distaste and think.
Oh. She was trying to rattle her? Retaliation, perhaps, for Ottilie insulting her leadership skills.
She sighed in irritation. “Getting back to the video, we would have no qualms about releasing it. You’ll be impossible to elect ever again. The media will have a field day talking about you as a pervert—a creep just like your husband. A fact I can certainly attest to.”
“You think I’m perverted ?” Kensington tilted her head, eyes hard. “Why? I asked you once. You said no. I never asked you again, did I? That hardly makes me a creep. So sue me if I made a pass at an underling after I’d clearly overindulged. If I were a man, this would barely warrant a slap on the wrist.”
Seriously? She hadn’t asked! She’d tried to take what she’d wanted. Yet even now she was reframing herself as a victim? Ottilie’s jaw set hard. Coldness swallowed her.
Kensington’s eyes flashed. “It’s blatant homophobia; that’s what this is. I’ll screw them all over if they try that on me! I’ll come out of this as the poster child for media persecution. They’ll be terrified of attacking me ever again.”
Maybe some of Ottilie’s disbelief and rage leaked because Kensington suddenly lightened her expression. “Anyway, as I said, I’d overindulged.” Her wave was dismissive. “It was nothing. Nothing at all.”
Nothing?
There was that word again. Pain shot up Ottilie’s arms from where she’d clamped her fists so hard. Her nails bit into her palms. She tried very hard not to remember all the ways she knew how to incapacitate a human. The CIA had thoroughly trained her for every eventuality. How dare this woman treat Ottilie as some toothless annoyance? As harmless!
Ottilie’s neck started throbbing, the ache blurring her logic. She could just lean over and snap Kensington’s scrawny neck, then disappear. It would be so easy. She had several passports. Multiple bank accounts in different countries. Different names. Connections everywhere. People with power and private jets, who owed her favors.
It was tempting. Ottilie was not nothing. She was not harmless.
But the darker impulses fled as quickly as they arrived. She reminded herself it wasn’t Kensington’s fault that she didn’t know of Ottilie’s vast sphere of influence. After all, she’d gone to great pains to hide who she really was. And Kensington might possess sharp claws and a vicious tongue, but she was lacking any great intellect or power. She was a hissing Siamese cat at best.
Heedless to the danger she’d just been in, Kensington pushed the pieces of paper with Ottilie’s demands back at her. “Is this what you’ve been doing with yourself post-retirement? Running around, warning people in high positions at The Fixers?” Kensington’s look was scornful.
“Tying up loose ends.” Ottilie choked out the words, still not as calm as she’d like.
Kensington’s cold gaze raked her. “So, you do blackmail now?”
Ottilie snorted. She’d always done blackmail. “You’re not being asked to do anything terribly onerous. Just that you keep your mouth shut regarding everyone listed.” She pointed at the paperwork.
After a pause, Kensington shrugged. “Fine. I don’t care. Besides, I assumed there was a reason certain people weren’t being named in the fallout. I’m not a fool. I wasn’t about to start naming anyone not mentioned by the media already.”
Oh, she was certainly a fool, but Ottilie wasn’t about to open that can of worms. Her breathing returned to normal.
Kensington added, “So why wasn’t your name on the list you showed me?”
“I don’t add my name to lists as a general rule. Consider it me being cautious.”
“Mmm.” Kensington sounded as though she did not disagree.
“But you’ll forget my name too. That goes without saying.” Ottilie shoved the papers back into her bag and fussed with the closure. “All right. That’s the business sorted. We’re done. You will not be hearing from us again…unless you cross us.”
Kensington watched her, expression sly. “How efficient you are. All the I s dotted; T s crossed.”
Ottilie’s fingers clenched again. She straightened. “You called me ‘a glorified typist’,” she said against her better judgment. Voice low, she added, “ That was a mistake.”
“Oh dear, I’m trembling in my fashionable heels.” Her eyes swept Ottilie. “Something you might want to look into. Acquiring fashion that doesn’t make you look like you’re doing a World War II informational video for the British government. You’re like the personification of sepia. Such a shame you weren’t interested in any fun.”
Fun? Ottilie fixed a glare on her, incredulous that the woman had just returned to that topic. “You really don’t understand consent, do you?”
With a small snort, Kensington said: “Christ, are you still fixating on that side of it? My dear, no one forced you into anything. You left my office dignity intact, silk panties on , but you’re still whining about how I treated you. And saying ‘ That was a mistake ’ as if you’re planning revenge or something equally ridiculous? Sugar, I’ve been threatened by the worst there is, and you’re not even in the ballpark. You. Are. Nothing.”
Ottilie clamped her jaw.
Kensington rose to leave. “Time to go. I’d say our time working together was a pleasure , but, alas, you said no.” Kensington’s expression turned savage as she leaned in close and hissed in Ottilie’s ear, “While I did love the idea of fucking the prudishness right out of you back then, telling you and your empty threats to fuck off now is the next best thing. It’s certainly got me wet.”
A furnace roared in Ottilie’s ears. The disrespect!
Kensington turned on her heel, then paused and glanced backward. “You were nothing more than an officious little bug with delusions of grandeur. Consider yourself lucky I even looked at you twice. Although, admittedly, I was drunk at the time.” She smiled sweetly.
Ottilie inhaled, aware now that she would end this woman. One way or another, the comfortable, entitled life Kensington enjoyed would be over.
In a soft, even voice, all she said was, “We will see who is nothing.”
* * *
Ottilie kept it together as she stalked back to her hotel room, but the moment the door closed, she let out her fury. Sweeping all her bottles and elixirs off the bathroom counter in an almighty crash did little to alleviate her rage. She shook out her balled-up fists and then…screamed. Into a pillow.
It was muted and brief. She so rarely indulged any part of herself that wasn’t ordered and controlled. A pointless exercise. She didn’t feel better for it.
Before she could stop herself, she reached for her tablet and loaded up a video, one she’d never shown another living soul—the other recording caught in the CEO’s office, of Ottilie’s disastrous encounter with Kensington that night.
Her discomfort radiated from the screen. So did her horror and…her weakness.
Three minutes later—had it really been only three minutes?—Ottilie flung down the tablet in disgust. So much for compartmentalizing away one’s misfortunes. Her go-to solution for life was failing her. She needed revenge.
Ottilie strode in frustrated circles around her hotel room. She knew so many ways to hurt the damned woman. The only thing she couldn’t do was out Kensington as a former Fixers CEO because that was the deal they’d reached today: Kensington’s silence on employees in exchange for Ottilie’s silence on Kensington’s CEO role.
That just meant she had to hurt her in a different way. Stopping in mid stride, she suddenly knew exactly how to hit her where it would hurt most.
She set to work.
A few hours later, Ottilie sat back, satisfied. She snatched up her phone and made a call.
“Ottilie?” Michelle Hastings answered, surprise evident. “Did you mean to call me? If you’re after my safta, she’s napping.”
“Yes, I meant to call you, not Hannah. This is business,” Ottilie ground out. “I need…”—she tried to contain her still burbling fury—“a favor.”
Michelle drew in a shocked breath. “You do not sound at all like yourself. Has something happened?”
“Nothing that cannot be fixed. My favor involves punishing Phyllis Kensington. Are you interested?”
“Ah.” Michelle’s tone tightened. “What’s she done now?”
“She is being…true to form.” Count to ten. Ottilie tried that but got stuck on three. “In other words, crude and terrible.”
“Sounds like her. What do you need?” Michelle asked after a pause.
“Contact that r eporter Catherine Ayers. Give her a story. It’s one I can verify. I have access to all the proof.”
“You’re exposing a Fixers CEO now? I assumed that wouldn’t be happening—for any of the CEOs,” Michelle said, sounding anxious. As she would.
“This story isn’t about her former role. It’s something else. Something that will ruin her.”
“Why can’t you contact Catherine? You know our history. Even if we’ve reached an understanding now, I don’t want to bother the woman. She’s been bothered by me enough for a lifetime.”
“I’m aware of what I’m asking. I am .” Ottilie’s voice shook a little. “But I’m a stranger. Ayers knows you. She’ll listen.”
“There are other nationally renowned journalists,” Michelle suggested.
“They’ll want to know who I am in the scheme of things. And I don’t want that. I need to stay well out of scrutiny.”
“Of course you do.” Another pause. “Why should I help you? And don’t say because you’re friends with my grandmother. That’s irrelevant here.”
“I would never use my friendship with Hannah for business,” Ottilie snapped.
After a pause, Michelle said, “I believe you. But hasn’t Kensington already been punished? The whole world knows she covered up her husband abusing a teenage boy because it suited her political ambitions. Why should I force myself to approach Catherine Ayers again,” she asked, “as a favor for you?”
“How did it feel,” Ottilie asked sharply, “when she tried to demand sex from you in your office that night?”
“Ottilie?” Michelle’s voice sounded astonished. “That sounds perilously like a personal question, and we don’t do those.”
“I’m aware you had a preexisting relationship with the senator. But on the video, in the office that night, you sounded clearly uncomfortable. More than that. You were…disturbed.”
Michelle sighed. “Why are you asking about ancient history?”
“ Is it…ancient history?” Ottilie’s voice cracked and sounded vulnerable to her own ears. “For you?”
Silence flattened the air.
Then, “Oh. Damn her.” Something like genuine sympathy flooded into Michelle’s tone. “You are her type. I know she has a thing for uptight, older women who she’d call her ‘church ladies.’”
Ottilie snorted. “I haven’t been to church in decades.”
“Still.” Michelle clucked her tongue. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know she’d tried it on you too.”
“Well.” Ottilie stiffened. “How could you? I told no one outside of a complaint to the board.”
Michelle said gently, “I know all too well what Phyllis is like and how much she hates hearing no. Yes, I can get behind some vengeance. What have you got on her for me to give Catherine?”
“I’ve prepared a document. I’ll email it. And I can get the notebooks mentioned as proof by the weekend.” Ottilie pressed send on the email she’d already cued up. “Just keep me out of it.”
There was a ping, a long pause, then, “Oh dear. It looks like Phyllis will regret the day she pissed you off.”
“Indeed.” Ottilie said in a tone so chilly it could ice over Vegas.
“Cover up something dirty, people shrug,” Michelle mused. “They expect sleaze and corruption of politicians. Do this, though? Steal all your famous homemade recipes from your underpaid cook? Who also happens to be a struggling Black mother of four? Recipes you claim you spent decades developing yourself? The optics are the worst. This will ruin her political ambitions for life.”
“Yes, that’s rather the point.” Ottilie rubbed her aching neck. “I have arranged with the cook to give her a better job—health care, far superior conditions, and twice the pay—well out of Kensington’s reach, in case she attempts retribution. Also, I’ve paid for a lawyer for the cook so she can sue Kensington for compensation for those stolen recipes. That should be a nice, public court case because I’ve told him not to settle.” Pain gnawed at her again, and she growled softly.
“Are you okay?”
Ottilie froze. “I see that justice warrior of yours is rubbing off on you. Since when do you care about my well-being?”
“You think I’m unfeeling to suffering?” Michelle actually sounded hurt.
“I…apologize,” Ottilie said with real regret. “I’m taking my run-in today with that abominable woman out on you.”
“ Today ? This happened today? I don’t understand.”
“ No, it didn’t just happen. But, yes, I saw Kensington today, and she mocked me for what she tried to do to me and thought adding salt to the wound would be fun.”
“She does have a cruel streak. Look, I know it’s not my place to say this, but I think you should talk to someone. Otherwise it’ll eat you inside. Trust me on that.”
“No, thank you,” Ottilie said with a shudder. “Therapists like to pathologize everything. I’m not interested in hearing names of all the conditions I may or may not have.”
“I don’t mean a therapist,” Michelle said. “Let me get my safta to call you when she’s up from her nap.”
“No, don’t bother her. I’m sure Hannah has far better things to do than hear about this.”
“She’s really good at this particular topic,” Michelle said quietly. “Trust me on this.”
“You…told her about Kensington?” Ottilie was stunned. “Your…personal involvement?”
“No. But there were other…difficult work things. In the past. She was incredibly understanding.”
“That FBI business, you mean? When you were undercover with the domestic terrorist?”
“You knew about that?” Horror sharpened her tone. “Did everyone at The Fixers know?”
“No, no. Just the board. They wanted to know why you’d left the Bureau when you were applying for a job with The Fixers. Number Three, as FBI director back then, informed the board of what had taken place.” Ottilie paused. “A most unsavory business. I’m sorry you had to go through it. It should never have happened.”
Michelle hissed in a breath.
“Michelle, I apologize for even bringing it up. That was thoughtless. I’m feeling a little…out of sorts.”
“I understand why, given Kensington’s behavior,” Michelle said, her voice tight. “And to answer your question: how did it feel? Dehumanizing. Both Kensington and the domestic terrorist. Is it ancient history? Yes. I’ve talked about the worst of it. I’m feeling…better. So listen to me when I say this: find someone to talk to who understands, even if it’s not Hannah.”
“Perhaps.” Ottilie had no interest in involving an elderly woman with her own struggles. It was weak. Ottilie wasn’t weak.
Ottilie said her goodbyes, hung up, and then threw down the phone. No, she wouldn’t unburden herself on anyone. She would simply…endure.
Her neck sent a new claw of pain through her. Apparently, endurance was her forte.