CHAPTER 62
“Hi, Aunt Linds.” She knew the voice. Never on this particular phone, but Lindsey Grant knew it.
“Clarice?”
“Yup! It’s me.”
“What are you doing on this number?” Why would Clarice be calling on this phone. She’d been assured that there was only one person who knew this number. One person. Oh, the person her niece worked for.
“Is Ama—” No names. No names. “Is . . . your employer okay?”
“Yeah. Mostly. She’s kinda freaking at the moment.”
So was she. She’d nearly jumped out of her skirt when the phone had vibrated in her pocket less than a dozen feet from the Oval Office. She detoured into her husband’s executive bathroom almost scaring to death the Secret Service agent guarding the door. She hadn’t even been in the West Wing except for official functions in at least a year.
