Mirror Image

Carole’s personality, but her odd behavior was keeping one person in particular awake at night. After hours of prowling the grounds surrounding the house, looking for answers in the darkness, the insomniac posed a question to the moon.
    What is the bitch up to?
    No radical changes in her could be pinpointed. The differences in her face were subtle, the result of the reconstructive surgery. Shorter hair made her look different, but that was inconsequential. She had lost a few pounds, making her appear slimmer than before, but it was certainly no drastic weight loss. Physically, she was virtually the same as before the crash. It was the nonphysical changes that were noticeable and so damned baffling.
    What is the bitch up to?
    Judging by her behavior since the crash, one would think her brush with death had given her a conscience. But that couldn’t be. She didn’t know the meaning of the word. Although for all the goodwill she was dispensing, that’s apparently what she wanted everybody to believe.
    Could Carole Rutledge have had a change of heart? Could she be seeking her husband’s approval? Could she ever be a loving, attentive mother?
    Don’t make me laugh.
    She was stupid to switch tactics now. She’d been doing fine at what she’d been hired to do: destroy Tate Rutledge’s soul, so that by the time that bullet exploded in his head, it would almost be a blessing to him.
    Carole Navarro had been perfect for the job. Oh, she’d had to be scrubbed down, tidied up, dressed correctly, and taught not to spike her speech with four-letter words. But by the time the overhaul had been completed, she had been a stunning package of wit, intellect, sophistication, and sexiness that Tate hadn’t been able to resist.
    He hadn’t known that her wit had been cleansed of all ribaldry, that her intellect was only refined street smarts, her sophistication acquired, and her sexiness tempered with false morality. Just as planned, he’d fallen for the package, because it had promised everything he had been looking for in a wife.
    Carole had perpetuated the myth until after Mandy was born—that had also been according to plan. It had been a relief for her to put phase two into action and start having affairs. The shackles of respectability had been chafing her for a long time. Her patience had worn thin. Once let loose, she performed beautifully.
    God, it had been marvelous fun to witness Tate in his misery!
    Except for that indiscreet visit in the hospital ICU, there’d been no mention made of their secret alliance since she was introduced to Tate four years ago. Neither by word or deed had they given away the pact they had made when she had been recruited for the job.
    But since the crash, she’d been even more evasive than usual. She bore watching—closely. She was doing some strange and unusual things, even for Carole. The whole family was noticing the unfamiliar personality traits.
    Maybe she was acting strange for the hell of it. That would be like her. She enjoyed being perverse for perversity’s sake alone. That wasn’t serious, but it rankled that she had seized the initiative to change the game plan without prior consultation.
    Perhaps she hadn’t had an opportunity to consult yet. Perhaps she knew something about Tate that no one else was privy to and which needed to be acted upon immediately.
    Or perhaps the bitch—and this was the most likely possibility—had decided that being a senator’s wife was worth more to her than the payoff she was due to receive the day Tate was laid in a casket. After all, her metamorphosis had coincided with the primary election.
    Whatever her motive, this new behavior pattern was as annoying as hell. She’d better watch herself, or she’d be cut out. At this point, it could all go down with or without her participation. Didn’t the stupid bitch realize that?
    Or had she finally realized that a second bullet was destined for her?

Seventeen
    “Mrs. Rutledge, what a surprise.”
    The secretary stood up to greet Avery as she entered the anteroom of the law office Tate shared with his brother. To learn where it was, she had had to look up the address in the telephone directory.
    “Hello. How are you?” She didn’t address the secretary by name. The nameplate on the desk read “Mary Crawford,” but she was taking no chances.
    “I’m fine, but you look fabulous.”
    “Thank you.”
    “Tate told me that you were prettier than ever, but seeing is believing.”
    Tate