The Last Invitation: A Novel

Chapter One

The Foundation

Seven women. One vote.

The Sophie Foundation. To the public, a charitable organization set up by a select group of powerful women to fund special projects relating to women’s health and welfare. Very general-sounding in its purpose, and not by accident. Behind the scenes, in private, a smaller group within the Foundation carried out a very different agenda.

Let’s get started. The meeting had been called to order without the need to yell or ask more than once.

Attendees immediately complied. Folders opened. Notepads appeared. They didn’t leave an electronic footprint and burned all documents after the meeting. They never wavered from this rule.

The first item relates to the individual referred to in the documents as Offender C.

They’d wait to vote until everyone had an opportunity to speak and all arguments had been heard and settled. No one dared to come unprepared. The thought was unimaginable. They performed invaluable work. Risky and serious work.

In light of the facts and history, and the probability of further acts of violence, I’m requesting our most significant penalty. A few members glanced up at the ringing command of the leader’s voice. Death.

Chapter Two

Gabby

Gabby Fielding hated talking with her ex-husband. She’d divorced him for a reason. A terrible, still-couldn’t-process-it reason that left her with no choice but to get out of the marriage she’d once believed, naïvely so, would last forever.

Back then she’d also considered him her best friend, a man she could trust, which now seemed trite. Today, she thought of him as a gigantic asshole, both relentless in his need to win and indifferent to the people around him. A blowhard with an overinflated ego backed up by an impressive bank account he’d built from almost nothing . . . and that almost ended up ruining everything.

This morning, yet another fight about their daughter, Kennedy, loomed. She was fourteen and had just left to start her second year away at boarding school in upstate New York, as he’d insisted. He’d argued about her needing a push then conflated the high yearly tuition with the guarantee of lifetime success, all while covertly convincing Kennedy she wanted to go. Gabby knew he’d picked the school because she hated the idea of Kennedy being away from home.

The custody arrangement Gabby regretted signing before she’d finished writing her name on the damn paperwork less than three years ago required them to meet by September 1 to discuss and agree on a winter holiday and vacation schedule for Kennedy. The supposed legal genius Gabby paid a fortune to represent her in the divorce insisted this was a good idea. Gabby fought it back then and lost, and she’d been right to be skeptical.

Baines Fielding, self-made and very impressed with all he’d accomplished, did not negotiate. He didn’t concede. He did not lose . . . or more accurately, he used the threat of cutting off the money to make sure he never lost.

This round he weaponized Kennedy by refusing to give permission for the summer program she wanted to attend until your mother meets her obligations. So, fine, Gabby would engage in her agreed-upon yearly grovel for Kennedy’s benefit.

Gabby inhaled nice and deep, reaching for the endless well of self-control required to get through this meeting and the expected barbs Baines would aim at her. She refused to fix her hair or take a quick look in the car window before stepping up to his front door. The years of primping, tucking, sucking in, and wearing spiky heels for his pleasure ended with their divorce.

She rang the doorbell. Minutes passed without him showing up, so she rang it again.

Nothing.

She mentally debated walking away but feared he’d lie and insist she’d never showed up. She couldn’t risk losing even more time with her daughter. If he wanted to play games, she’d play. Maybe she’d sit on the hood of his pretty little sports car and wait for him to race out of the house, screaming about the paint. Even better, she’d walk in the front door.

After some rummaging in her purse, she found the extra key she wasn’t supposed to have. Coming inside without his permission would piss him off, possibly set off an alarm, but so what? The last week in August in DC meant stifling humidity. After a few minutes out of air-conditioning, her clothes stuck to her. She risked melting into a giant overdressed puddle.

She touched the knob and the door opened without the need for the key. No squealing alarm. No yelling about her trespassing in the house she’d picked out and decorated . . . then lost in the divorce.

Baines? She called out his name, then, in a much quieter voice, Asshole?

The words echoed back to her without a response.

Weird.

Her sandals clicked against the marble foyer. All that shiny white struck her as sleek and pretty when she’d lived there. Now it seemed stark and cold, which fit the current owner’s personality.

Baines, what the hell? Where are you? Her voice bounced off the two-story entrance as she moved around.

He didn’t pop up with his perfectly dimpled cheek and his usual what’s wrong with you? expression. She assumed her very busy, very important ex was trying to make a point.

She walked across the entry to the paneled library at the opposite side. Hey, are you on the phone?

She stepped into the doorway and . . . red. The shocking color flashed in front of her. Bright and out of place. In spots and splashes. Splattered across the painting next to him in a random pattern of dots. Dripping down his white shirt. Oozing from the hole right by his ear.

The panicked screaming in her head told her to run, but she couldn’t move. She stumbled. Off-balance, she slammed into something hard. The wall, a piece of furniture—she didn’t know or care because every part of her, from her brain to her bones, went numb.

He couldn’t be . . .

Baines. She tried to say his name. She thought her mouth opened but couldn’t be sure. All that noise pounding in her head, the jumble of thoughts, but no sound came out.

The air in the room wrapped around her, cutting off her breath. The sensation of being hunted and stalked hit her right before the room went dark.

Chapter Three

Jessa

You’re pathetic. His rage, usually tamped down and reined in, hidden behind a baby face and black thin-framed glasses, whipped out without warning.

Jessa Hall didn’t panic because she’d been called worse. She regularly received comments about her alleged incompetency, or how ugly she was, and how she’d ruined everything. She was a divorce lawyer. Misplaced hate came with the territory.

The issue right now was Darren Bartholomew’s unraveling. Forty-six years old, probably objectively attractive to some in a rich-white-guy kind of way, but not to her. He came to court dressed in his usual nerdy, pressed-to-perfection look. He could pass as a college professor, but he was vice president of . . . something in a century-old family business, which meant he didn’t do much of anything but collect checks from a trust fund.

She’d known his family for all of three weeks. In that time, he’d never raised his voice. Never showed any outward signs of anger. Never yelled. He’d been a model of calm, practical decency. The smart, reliable one. The one who listened and said all the right things. That he let the mask slip—chose to show the real him, the him his wife said she feared—in the open area right outside a courtroom, less than twenty feet away from two sheriffs, surprised Jessa.

She refused to show weakness as she turned to face him. Calling me names isn’t going to help your case, Mr. Bartholomew.

She’d hoped the teacher-like snap in her voice would bring him rushing back to reality and click his usual well-meaning façade into place. The discussion provided his estranged wife with the cover she needed to sneak away and make a dash for the elevators behind his back.

Darren didn’t blink as he faced Jessa down. You have no idea what you’ve done.

I haven’t done anything yet. The judge had handled all the talking during the hearing, but Jessa understood that she’d be the target. In part, that was her job as the guardian ad litem. She’d been appointed by the court to represent the best interests of Curtis Bartholomew, the five-year-old being pulled apart by his parents’ very ugly divorce.

Her firm, a boutique family law practice that produced a string of judges to the Montgomery County Circuit Court and the Maryland Court of Appeals, agreed to GAL appointments as a service to the court. She’d been assigned to the Bartholomew divorce, and to Curtis, and she really wished she was back in her office, doing just about anything else right now.

She has custody, he said. She, presumably, being Ellie Bartholomew, his wife.

"Your wife has temporary physical custody. You have visitation." Something his attorney should be explaining to him, not her. Jessa stretched up on tiptoes and looked around for the overpriced, business-and-not-really-divorce-attorney good old boy who represented Darren.

No overnight visits. Darren shook his head. I’m limited on how much I can see my own son.

I know that’s upsetting. Jessa tried to signal for Darren’s attorney, a reinforcement to explain to Darren that physically removing his wife from the house and throwing a duffel bag at her in front of Curtis and his friends had started the custody case off in a very bad way. The judge had not been impressed with Darren’s in-court not-really apology for his behavior, which was why they were all in this mess. But it’s just until the psychologist, Dr. Downing, finishes her custody evaluation and—

She isn’t smart enough to make Curtis’s lunch. Darren’s soft, nonthreatening tone was back, but it didn’t match the heat behind his words.

Jessa assumed he again referred to his wife’s perceived failings. But maybe he meant Dr. Downing. Maybe all women. Who knew? But that summed up his entire custody argument—the woman he’d married was too incompetent, stupid, ill-equipped, to even see their son, let alone have custody.

Darren was an all-or-nothing guy who’d already made it clear that his family’s influence and money should mean everything when it came to who was best able to parent Curtis. He could give Curtis things. Vacations. Private school.

Jessa really didn’t like this type of man at all. He seemed benign. Came off, at first, as caring and devoted. Completely shocked that his wife wanted to end the marriage and clearly taken by surprise by her choice after an unimportant fight that got out of hand, or so his explanation for kicking his wife out went. But here, today, the real Darren peeked out.

He suddenly smiled, as if they were having a conversation about the weather or some other innocuous subject.

Jessa found the fake-calm version of Darren even creepier than the fury-spewing version.

Darren’s voice dropped to a whisper. You should know if anything happens to my son before I can fix your mess, I will kill you.

The words, so delicately delivered, so cool and unruffled, shocked her. Excuse me?

But Darren had walked away. He headed in the direction of the sheriffs, holding out his hand and introducing himself. Politicking, as was his normal state.

His attorney finally stepped in front of her. Did you want something?

Some backup, jackass. Now you show up? When the other attorney frowned, Jessa tried again. Your client just threatened me.

He seems fine to me. He glanced at Darren before looking at her. He’s making friends, as usual. He’s a natural. You should know he’s not a man who’s accustomed to losing.

So entitled. We’re talking about custody of his son, not a business deal.

The attorney laughed. You act like he knows the difference.

Chapter Four

Gabby

Hours after she’d walked into Baines’s library, Gabby sat across from two police officers at the dining room table Baines had fought so hard to win as part of the divorce division of assets. The man hadn’t picked out anything for the house, not so much as a napkin, but he’d fought for every stick of furniture, plate, and curtain in the room.

The male officer, the one in uniform, looked at her with concern. Do you need us to call someone for you?

Gabby stared into the hallway and watched various forensic and other professionals walk in and out of her former house. Right now, it felt like the whole world was clomping around the property.

This time the woman on the other side of the table tried. Mrs. Fielding?

The sound of her voice had Gabby’s head snapping back to the conversation at the table. The last few minutes, hours, or whatever amount of time had transpired since she walked into Baines’s office blurred together. Gabby couldn’t remember calling the police or letting them in. Her last memory . . . fuzzy. She saw Baines slumped at his desk, and her world stopped.

I’m Detective Melissa Schone, the woman continued.

Detective? For the first time Gabby realized the other woman wasn’t wearing a uniform like the officer beside her. Her black suit in sharp contrast to her pale skin and white-blonde hair. The unusual combination came off as striking.

The detective cradled a glass of water, but her hands didn’t hint at her age. She could be in her forties or fifties. Gabby couldn’t tell. She looked at her own palms. They shook as she turned them over, studying every hard-earned line of her thirty-nine years.

We know you’ve had a terrible scare, but could you answer some questions? the detective asked.

Maybe? The visit with Baines came back to her in pieces. Distorted and uneven. Gabby didn’t know if she could trust the flashes in her mind.

Fear. Blood. Baines.

Gabby asked the first thing that popped into her head. He’s dead?

The male officer nodded. Yes, ma’am.

Gabby waited for the sadness to hit her, but the haze blanketing her and blunting her emotions, making every memory cloudy, hadn’t lifted. She remembered coming here to fight for time with Kennedy . . . Kennedy! Oh, God. How was she going to tell Kennedy about her dad? Baines doted on her, gave her anything she wanted. This would devastate her.

An anxious churning moved through Gabby. She gulped in air but still couldn’t pull in enough breath. I need to go to my daughter.

First, tell us what happened here, Detective Schone said.

Trapped. The word spun around in Gabby’s mind. She needed to get through this before she could leave, so she forced her body to sit still. She tried to concentrate on relaying the events even though a few of the words stuck in her throat. I walked in and saw him slumped in his chair.

The door wasn’t locked? the detective asked.

I have a key. A fact Gabby now regretted. Wait . . . the door was unlocked. I never used my key. Maybe. She shook her head. I honestly can’t remember.

Okay. The detective continued with what sounded like a preset list of questions. Why were you here today?

Custody stuff. The snippets fell into place and a final, horrifying memory flashed in front of Gabby, nearly cutting off her breath. All that blood.

Yes, we believe your husband—

Ex. Gabby grabbed on to the one thing that resonated with her. The only thing she could control. We’re divorced.

She forced herself to stop there. She had a habit of babbling when she was nervous or trying to hide something. She didn’t want any thought about the latter creeping in as she talked.

The officers looked at each other before Detective Schone spoke again. Yes, of course. We’re wondering if you had any indication that something like this might happen. Maybe in his mood, or possibly something he said to you?

This? The question made no sense to Gabby. What are you talking about?

The detective’s hands tightened around the glass she was holding. We’ll get more information later, of course, but initial indications point to suicide.

God, no. Gabby fought through the confused and conflicting thoughts pummeling her. How secretive he’d become at the end of their marriage. The can’t-be-touched showmanship he deployed during the divorce. He’d changed from the man she married until he became this businessman who thrived on being difficult.

The detective put her glass to the side before starting again. Some people deal with long-term depression. Others have desperate thoughts that are more situational in nature, stemming from a bad business deal, for example. Loneliness or disappointment. Divorce is a loss, even if someone wants out.

Understatement. Baines would never kill himself. The idea was . . . laughable. It took all the composure Gabby could muster not to give in to her nerves, make a joke, and accidentally make herself a target.

Do you know if there was a gun in the house? Detective Schone asked.

But . . . no. Gabby shook her head. You’re not getting this.

The detective sat back in her chair. Enlighten us.

Gabby had no idea why it was so important to her that they understand the man who right now might be in a body bag, but it was. I don’t know how my life ended up here. That will take years of therapy for me to figure out. Off track. Gabby fought to find her way back to the topic through all the fragments of memories and dizzying surprise flooding through her. That doesn’t matter. The point is my ex-husband loved himself far too much to deprive the world of his existence.

Silence followed the comment. Even a guy in the hall glanced up.

People don’t usually beg us to declare a homicide has occurred then paint themselves as an angry suspect. The detective’s voice carried a not-so-subtle warning.

I didn’t do it. Yes, he made me furious, and I might have joked about . . . but I didn’t. Never. I couldn’t. Gabby took in their unconvinced stares and regretted her nervous laugh and racing mouth. They would not pin this on her. Gabby refused to let that happen. She’d fought all her life and she wouldn’t stop now. What about the other person?

They stared at her.

There was someone else was in the room when I walked in, Gabby said, growing more confident in the declaration the longer she talked. The strange sound and odd sensation right before she blacked out. Someone attacked me.

Chapter Five

The Foundation

They met on the second Tuesday of the month. Members only.

A month had passed since they’d last assembled at the massive property tucked behind a high wall and locked gate. Over the years, the owners of the historic home had welcomed presidents, political operatives, and Supreme Court justices. The structure’s size still confused many passersby into thinking it was a school. Little did they know the people inside used the spectacular house to carry out spectacular work.

Inclusion in the private group grew out of a carefully curated list and remained limited. No one could wander in or bring a guest. Potential new members—something of a rarity, for obvious reasons—had to pass a rigorous background check and be vetted by more than one existing member.

The rules required that the vote to consider issuing an invitation be unanimous, followed by a probationary period where the potential candidate underwent an assessment then another vote before the formal invitation. All of this occurred without the candidate ever knowing they were being considered for membership. That was the only way for an ongoing enterprise like this to work. Strict compliance. Complete secrecy. Unbending commitment.

No one had passed the intense scrutiny or been considered for membership in more than two years. Until now.

The monthly agenda didn’t allow for a lot of socializing, but at the start of each meeting the members talked about families and work as they settled into oversized chairs in what used to be the music room of the three-story white stone mansion in Chevy Chase, Maryland, just outside of Washington, DC. The one with the split staircase in the entry and the second-floor grand ballroom, complete with an orchestra pit.

This brief initial icebreaking time worked as a bridge between their lives out there and the work they did in this room. Those precious ten minutes, never longer, allowed for the pressures of the day to ease and a calming breath before handling an ever-growing list of serious business.

They were busy women. Some drank wine after a long, tedious day. Others stuck to water, wanting top mental acuity for the meeting. None took what they did for granted.

Let’s get started. As usual, that was enough to stop the talk and begin the meeting. A motion has been made to reconsider an individual for membership. The previous two votes were not unanimous. We must begin—

Dissecting her life and testing her endurance.

A round of murmurs and seat shifting followed the statement from the back of the room. Most of the women turned to the files in front of them. Some sat almost at attention, as if excited to weigh in.

The leader didn’t flinch. The old system may seem draconian, but we all survived it. As it stands now, it is the best way to assess commitment, drive, and ability to handle our workload.

She waited until the woman who had interrupted nodded. Good. Then let’s open the discussion so we can move for a third vote. If the vote is again ‘no,’ we will not reconsider this person for membership again.

Chapter Six

Jessa

Their small group went out to dinner at least once a month. Jessa prided herself on being practical and thought it was weird to hear grown-ups talk about having best friends, but hers was Faith Rabara. They’d met during freshman orientation at Georgetown almost twenty years ago, and their lives had circled around each other ever since.

Faith, from a big Filipino family that believed in frequent gatherings filled with laughter and unending plates of food. Jessa, raised in relative quiet by her dad in Ohio as he juggled extra shifts at the plant and nonstop requests by her maternal grandparents to see her as a way of staying connected to the daughter they lost when Jessa was born.

The third member of their little group joined in fourteen months ago. Tim Abner. Specifically, Timothy Aloysius Abner, grandson of a former congressman from Connecticut and Jessa’s live-in boyfriend. She wasn’t great at remembering dates or names, but she knew the exact date she met Tim because it was the day a one-night stand stretched into a weekend-long sex session and eventually a relationship. Jessa couldn’t figure out if that was romantic or not, so she pretended it was.

Tim was also an attorney, but almost everyone in DC seemed to be, so that wasn’t special. He practiced international business law, and a few sentences about his day were enough to put Jessa to sleep.

Tim arrived late to the bustling restaurant, as usual, taking off his suit jacket as he rounded the table and kissed Jessa. What did I miss?

Faith lowered her wineglass long enough to answer over the murmur of conversation in the open dining room. The details of Jessa’s scary day in court.

He slid into the chair next to Jessa. I’m going to need something stronger than wine if we’re going to talk about couples fighting over lawn furniture or whatever it is this time.

The waitress swung by then was off again, but she’d temporarily derailed the conversation, just as Jessa hoped. She’d be happy to talk about any subject except this one case.

Faith missed the silent woman-to-woman signal or something, because she chugged on. You need to tell your law partners that—

I’m not going to make the jump from associate to partner if I whine. There. Done. Ending the conversation there would make her evening less bumpy. The idea of engaging in endless rounds of arguments with Tim on this topic sounded exhausting. Jessa had had enough male wrangling for one day.

He threatened to kill you, Faith said, not letting the topic go.

Wait. Tim stopped in the middle of reaching for Jessa’s wineglass. Rewind.

Jessa shot Faith a quick thanks a lot glare before diving in. Darren Bartholomew lost it outside of the courtroom. I bet tomorrow he calls and apologizes and is back to his nerdy self.

Faith saluted them with her glass. And you’ll accept his groveling because the rich always get a pass.

The return of the waitress with more drinks cut off Tim’s response, but he had it loaded and ready for the second she left the table again. Let’s not turn this into class warfare.

Faith winked at him. Says the boarding-school dude with the funky middle name.

I’ll have you know it’s a very revered name . . . or so my mom says, he said in a voice loaded with sarcasm. Hell, I didn’t pick it. He laughed as he looked at Jessa. But let’s stay on topic. The Bartholomews?

Jessa hated talking about her work. She hadn’t picked family law as her specialty. She fell into it. Right out of law school, she’d worked for a small firm. No one wanted to turn clients away or refer them out, so she’d done a little bit of everything and had gotten into a courtroom, trying cases, long before she likely was ready to handle them.

A few divorce cases got her noticed by her current firm, Covington, Irving and Bach. They specialized in family matters, building up an impressive reputation among the wealthy and connected in the DC area. Being good at something she hated trapped her in a cycle of high salary and low happiness that she couldn’t seem to break out of for thirteen years and two firms. Since that was a pretty nice problem to have, she kept quiet about it.

Tim sighed. Maybe—and just listen for a second before you get ticked off—maybe you should get out of this case.

Faith froze. Are you really worried about her safety?

He’s not, Jessa said. He was worried about his job. His reputation. His partners getting ticked off. He never said any of it out loud, but he clearly weighed and assessed their respective careers and found his far more important and worthy of preservation than hers.

What I’m hearing . . . Faith took another sip of her drink. Is that this is not the first time you two have had this conversation.

Some people sitting in the