Devlin asked the housekeeper. “Should I be?” “I don’t know, but I couldn’t stay away any longer.” “So I see.” “May I come in?” Josie glanced back at the stairs. Angela was nowhere in sight; she must not have heard the bell. “Come into the kitchen,” she said, and led him to the back of the house. “You know everything?” Devlin asked her as soon as she looked at him. “Yes. Angela told me first, and then of course all the news about Frank was a carnival in the media.” “You know what I did?” he persisted, searching her face. Josie felt a flash of sympathy for him but kept her face impassive. He was afraid she was mad at him, too. “I know what Angela told me. You’re really a narcotics agent who impersonated a bodyguard in order to build a case against her uncle.” “He’s guilty, Mrs. Clinton, I swear it. He’s guilty as hell.” “Angela doesn’t think so.” “She hates me now,” he said miserably. “She’s trying to convince herself she hates you, which is an entirely different thing.”
