I close my eyes. When sleep finally comes, I dream of ballrooms and shadows and a figure I can never quite see, always just out of reach, always leaving me wanting.
2. Carter
The Crane family crest hangs above my father's desk, the same place it's hung for three generations. It’s a golden crane in flight against a navy field, wings spread wide.Integrity. Legacy. Service. The words are engraved on a brass plate beneath it, polished weekly by staff who've been with the family longer than I've been alive.
Right now, the crane looks like it's fleeing.
I stand in my father's study, watching the same news coverage that the rest of the country is watching. CNN has a panel of four people, all of them talking over each other about offshore accounts and shell companies. The banner at the bottom reads: CRANE FACING CORRUPTION CHARGES.
We’ve got a press conference outside in twenty minutes. The whole family is being rolled out in solidarity. My father’s response has already been scripted, but this isn’t going to end with a single press conference saying we didn’t do it. This is going to follow us for years, if we survive it at all.
Outside, the grounds of the family estate stretch toward the tree line, manicured lawns giving way to old-growth forest. The oak tree still has its Christmas lights wound through the bare branches. It’s the same oak where I proposed to Georgia three weeks ago, with our families watching and a photographer capturing the moment. The image ran in every paper that mattered. Carter Crane III: family man, tradition-keeper, the next generation of political leadership.
They’re setting up for the press conference underneath that same tree. We’re giving the same message: family, stability and tradition, even as we fight for our political lives.
I can’t help be struck by the fact that the same channels and newspapers who were singing my praises three weeks ago, are calling me a fraud today. The fucking press. They’re nothing but a bunch of ghouls.
My father is pacing the floor behind me. I can hear the soft thud of his Italian leather shoes against the Persian rug, the sharp exhale of his breath every time a new pundit weighs in. He hasn't sat down in hours.
"That damned hack," he says, not for the first time.
Warren stands near the door, phone pressed to his ear, murmuring in that low voice he uses when he's fixing things. He's been on calls since dawn, reaching out to allies, feeling out which way the wind is blowing. Warren has been my father's right hand for fifteen years. If anyone can contain this, it's him.
The door opens and Kate slips in, coffee in hand, still wearing last night's clothes. She drops onto the leather sofa in the corner and curls her legs beneath her.
"Don't mind me," she says. "Just here for the show."
My father doesn't even look at her. He's used to Kate's commentary. We all are.
"This is serious, Catherine," my mother says.
"I know." Kate's voice loses some of its edge. "That's why I'm here."
She catches my eye across the room and raises her coffee cup in a small salute.
Warren’s jaw tightens. He’s never got on with Kate. He thinks my father is too lenient on her, but trying to control Kate was never a smart move. Tie her tighter, and the harder she will wriggle.
In my opinion, Warren would be better suited sorting out his own house. He told us this was handled. Two days before Christmas, standing in this very room, he assured my father the story was dead. The editor at The Daily Scoop had killed it. The journalist had been warned off.
"How did this happen?" I ask, not turning from the window. "You said it was resolved."
Warren lowers his phone. His expression doesn't change—it never does—but there's a tension in his shoulders that wasn't there before. "He went around the Scoop. Took it straight to the Times. We think he only offered it to the Scoop out of legal obligation. As his employer, they had the right to first refusal on the story."
"The Times." My father stops pacing. "And no one thought to warn us?"
"The Times doesn't leak. They kept it airtight until publication." Warren's voice is flat. "Dean has been planning this for months, maybe years. When the Scoop killed the story, he already had the Times lined up."
Persistent little bastard. Before Christmas, this was just a minor annoyance to be swatted away. Now that minor annoyance is the top story on every network in the country.
I turn from the window. "What do we actually know about him?"
Warren pulls up something on his phone. "Jamie Dean. Late twenties. Ex-staff writer at The Daily Scoop. He mostly did society coverage, nothing serious and unfortunately nothing sordid. We can’t catch him on that. On the other hand, he’s had no journalism awards and no major investigations on his record. This is his first real story."
"Then how did he get documents that even I haven't seen? Are they fake?"
The question hangs in the air. Warren and my father exchange a look I'm not meant to catch.
"Disgruntled staffers," my father says. "It must have been someone with access who wanted to cause trouble. We'll find them."
