because Prescott Hale had insisted I needed three hours of sleep.
Prescott had worked for me for fourteen years.
Former military intelligence.
Broad shoulders.
Gray beginning at his temples.
A man who could spot a concealed weapon from across a ballroom and remember every license plate parked outside.
He met me near the front staircase.
“There’s someone outside the south gate.”
“I don’t care.”
“She’s been there since eleven this morning.”
I continued walking.
“Then remove her.”
“She keeps asking about the caregiver position.”
“We aren’t hiring.”
“I told her.”
I stopped because Prescott had not moved.
Prescott always moved.
“What?”
“She says she knows Jonah and Blythe are dying.”
Every muscle in my body tightened.
Nobody outside my family, the medical team, and a handful of security personnel knew how severe their condition was.
The official explanation for my absence from public life was that my children were receiving
