“That, I don’t know. The warden wasn’t exactly forthcoming when I called and asked to see his visitor logs.”
I wish I could say I was surprised, but I’m not. The last time we had the pleasure of making Warden Ethan Bennet’s acquaintance, he had us escorted out of his prison for using excessive force against Leland. Clearly he’s still pissy about me slamming Marsh’s head into a table and Cal threatening to do the same to one of his guards.
“Asshole,” I mutter. “We can go around him. Find Conlon and see if this is all for clicks and views or if he’s trying to be Jacob 2.0.”
“Wecan’t do anything.”
My brows furrow. “What are you talking about? Conlon could be a danger to Selene, we have to…” The burn of urgency and purpose leave me in a quiet whoosh as the realization sets in. Cal and I are no longer in charge of Selene’s safety. We’re not even supposed to acknowledge her existence because that might set Aubrey off, so investigating the possibility of a threat to her is not an option. “We could give compile the information and give it to Shaw,” I offer lamely, hating the idea of ceding control to anyone, even someone I trust and respect as much as the head of Selene’s detail.
Since coming on the scene, she’s proven herself to be extremely capable. Every member of her team I’ve had the chance to interact with speaks highly of her, calling her a dynamic leader with a vision for protecting that requires flexibility and accounts for the humanity of those under her care. I’ve seen her work firsthand, benefited from her unusual philosophy, and yet, it still burns down to my core to know we’ll have to hand over this lead and hope she sees the value in pursuing it.
“That’s probably for the best.” I listen to the faint clicking of his fingers flying across the keys of his laptop and know instantly that he’s drafting an email to the woman in question. Seconds later, he sighs. “Done.”
“Shaw can handle this, right?” I ask, leg bouncing impatiently as I wait for the car in front of me to find a break in traffic to execute a left turn.
“Yes,” Cal answers confidently.
That same certainty is in his voice hours later when we’re on a FaceTime call with Selene’s parents, Justine and Albert, or as they like for us to call them, Mama J and Al. Somewhere between saving Selene and putting the entire Grant crew on flights back to Georgia, Cal and I ended up exchanging numbers with Mama J. At that time, I don’t think either of us realized we’d be talking to her more than we even see Selene.
She calls all the time. Sometimes to ask questions about her daughter that we can’t answer, but other times, it’s to check on us. To make sure we’re eating and sleeping and not giving in to the prevalent urge to kill Aubrey’s dumb ass. Today’s call is a surprising balance of both concern for us and for Selene. A result of Conlon’s video of Marsh going viral on social media.
“I just can’t stand the sight of that hateful man.” Mama J shakes her head, shoulders up around her ears as she shiverswith disgust. “Why would anyone give him a platform to say such terrible things?”
She poses the question directly to us, staring into our souls with the brown eyes she passed down to her oldest daughter. The phone is propped up on the kitchen counter, so we have a plain view of her slicing vegetables while Al stirs something in the pot on the stove behind her. He glances over his shoulder, mouth set in a disapproving line.
“Hate will always find a home in this country, Jus, you know that.”
“Of course I know that, Albert. It doesn’t mean I have to accept it, especially when it’s aimed atmy baby.”
“Selene has a great team around her,” I remind them, stealing Cal’s line of reassurance because I’m sure he’s tired of saying it by now. We’ve been on the phone with the Grants for almost thirty minutes, listening to Mama J rant and trying to convince her it will all be fine. Nothing seems to truly soothe her, though, and I understand that. I won’t be soothed until Marsh and every other threat to Selene has been obliterated.
“I don’t doubt that at all,” she says, softening a little. “I just wish you two were a part of that team as well.”
Cal reaches for me, wrapping his fingers around the clenched fist resting on my thigh. It loosens immediately, shifting to an open palm for him to press his against.
“We wish that too,” he tells her.
“More than you know,” I add.
4
SELENE
Iused to love coming to work.
The thrill of walking into a building that doesn’t have my name on the door but bears my mark anyway.
The satisfaction of being around people who hate small talk as much as I do and don’t look at me weird when I order the same dish from the same restaurant for lunch every day for three months.
The buzz of excitement that would roll through my body and shoot out of my fingertips when inspiration for a new program struck. I’m waiting to feel it now, fingers poised over the keyboard, teeth digging into my bottom lip, brain frustratingly quiet. I’ve passed hours like this. Not today, but over the course of the nearly four months Aubrey has been in office. As First Lady, my duty is to this country and not my business, so I only get to come to Culture Code twice a week, and every minute of my limited time is spent suspended in the agony oftryingto create.
Anyone who’s ever taken something fluid and given it shape, blessed it with form, imbued it with purpose, knows creation isn’t something that can be forced. You have to be willing tosurrender control, if only for a second, so it can flow through you. That part has always been hard for me, but decades of coding have taught me that it’s possible under the right conditions. The most important of which is the one thing I have less and less of whenever I’m here: time.
Back in January, I made it clear to Allegra—my social secretary—that my days at Culture Code were to be blocked off. No appearances. No interviews. No stupid meetings about rehearsals for State Dinners. Just me, my work, my office, my people. She promised to honor the request, and for a while there she did. I would get to spend two full days at the office, even managing to work late sometimes Then, slowly, but surely, that changed. A quick meeting before you go to the office here. An appearance that will require you to leave the office there. Suddenly, my designated days were mere hours I was lucky to have, and my ability to curate an environment conducive to creating was gone.
I slam my laptop shut and push back from my desk, blowing out a harsh breath.
“No luck?” Monique asks, glancing up from her makeshift work station at the conference table in the far corner of the office. We were supposed to be having a work date of sorts, using the other’s presence as motivation to get things done. Usually body doubling works great for me, but today it seems to only be benefiting her.
