Mirror Image

moment. “You’re an extremely clever young woman. Your transformation from skid row topless dancer into a lady charming enough to be a senator’s wife was quite remarkable. It must have taken an enormous amount of planning, studying, and hard work to bring about. You even chose a surname enshrined on the walls of the Alamo—a Spanish name. Very advantageous for the wife of a political candidate in Texas.
    “But this most recent change is even more incredible than the first because you seem to believe in it yourself. I could even think that you’re sincere until I compare what you were like the morning of the crash to what you’re like now, with Tate, with Mandy.” Zee gave her head a negative shake. “No one can change that drastically, no matter how clever she is.”
    “How do you know I haven’t changed out of love for Tate? I’m trying to be what he needs and wants.”
    Shooting her a look, Zee moved her aside and reached for the door. “I know as well as I know my own name that you are
not
what you want us to believe you are.”
    “When do you plan to expose me?”
    “Never.” Carole flinched with surprise. “As long as Tate is happy and content with you, I won’t disillusion him. The folder will remain our secret. But start hurting him again, Carole, and I assure you I’ll destroy you.”
    “You can’t do that without destroying Tate, too.”
    “I don’t intend to make it a public disclosure. Showing the portfolio to Tate would be sufficient. He wouldn’t let a whore, even a reformed one, rear his daughter. It’s intolerable to me, too, but I have no choice at this point. Rarely are we given real choices.”
    A look of sheer desperation came over Carole’s face. She closed her hand around Zee’s arm. “You can’t ever tell Tate. Please, Zee, please don’t. It would kill him.”
    “That’s the only reason I’ve resisted so far.” Zee wrested her arm free of the younger woman’s touch. “But believe me, Carole, if it came to seeing him suffer through a scandal temporarily, or living in misery for the rest of his life, I would spare him the latter at any cost.”
    On her way out, she added, “I’m sure you’ll search for this dossier I have on you. Don’t bother destroying it. There’s a duplicate in a private safe deposit box, which can be opened only by me, or, in the event of my death, Tate.”
    * * *
    Avery unlocked the front door with her key and stepped inside the house. “Mona? Mandy?”
    She located them in the kitchen. The cheek she pressed against Mandy’s was cold. She’d driven all the way from San Antonio with the car windows down. Her face had been flaming after her unsettling encounter with Zee. The cool air had also warded off the nausea she experienced every time she thought of Carole Navarro’s incriminating history.
    “Is the soup good, darling?”
    “Uh-huh,” Mandy replied, slurping up a spoonful of chicken and noodles.
    “I didn’t expect anyone home for lunch, Mrs. Rutledge, but I can fix you something.”
    “No thanks, Mona. I’m not hungry.” She shrugged out of her coat and sat down in one of the chairs at the table. “I could stand a cup of tea if it’s not too much trouble, please.”
    She nervously wrung her hands until the housekeeper set the steaming cup of fragrant tea in front of her, then folded her bloodless fingers around the mug.
    “Are you feeling all right, Mrs. Rutledge? Your cheeks are flushed.”
    “I’m fine. Just chilled.”
    “I hope you’re not coming down with the flu. There’s a lot of it going around.”
    “I’m fine,” she repeated, smiling weakly. “Finish your fruit cocktail, Mandy, then I’ll read you a story before your nap.”
    She tried to respond to Mandy’s constant chatter, a sign of her continuing progress, but her mind kept wandering back to Zee and the damning information she had collected on Carole.
    “All done?” She praised the two empty bowls Mandy held up for her inspection. Finishing her tea, she led Mandy to her bedroom. After helping her untie her shoes, she lifted her into bed and covered her with a quilt. She settled down beside her with a large picture book.
    Her father had read to her from such a book when she was a girl. It was filled with beautiful illustrations of damsels with long, wavy, golden hair being rescued from distress by handsome, brave heroes who overcame impossible odds. Her memories of lying beneath covers or sitting on her father’s lap while his voice