My father studies me for a long moment. I can see him calculating, weighing the risks against the potential rewards. Finally, he nods.
"Fine. But Warren preps you. Every question, every angle. You don't walk into that studio without knowing exactly what you're going to say."
"Understood."
Warren doesn't look happy, but he doesn't argue. He just pulls out his phone and starts making calls.
My mother catches my eye, her approval apparent.
The press conference goes exactly as planned. My father stands at the podium, flanked by my mother and me, and delivers his statement with the righteous indignation of a man falsely accused.
The allegations are baseless. The family has nothing to hide. We look forward to the investigation that will clear our name.
I stand behind him, hands clasped, face carefully bored. Let them see that this is nothing but a nuisance.
Kate stands beside our mother, posture perfect, face arranged into the appropriate expression of family solidarity. She's good at this when she has to be—playing her part in The Carter Crane Show, as she calls it. Only I can see the slight tension in her jaw, the way her fingers are pressed too hard against her thigh. She hates all the politics but she does her duty when she needs to.
My father takes a few softball questions from friendly outlets, easily batted away. When someone asks about specific offshore accounts, he shakes his head sadly.
"We won't dignify speculation. The American people know this family. They know our record of service. One tabloid journalist's fantasy doesn't change sixty years of history."
I watch the reporters scribbling notes as cameras flash. Some of them look skeptical. Most look hungry. This is the biggest story in months, and they want our blood.
It doesn't matter. We've survived worse. My grandfather faced an actual federal investigation in 1973 and still won re-election by twelve points. The Cranes are unbreakable.
When it's over, we retreat to the house and Warren begins his preparations for Glass. In half an hour, he's assembled a team in the formal dining room: media consultants, lawyers. I’m even expecting the arrival of former Glass guests who can tell me what to expect. The table is covered with documents, tablets, printouts of every question Glass has ever asked a hostile guest.
They drill me for hours.
"Mr. Crane, the documents show transfers totaling fourteen million dollars to offshore accounts in the Caymans. Can you explain that?"
"Those documents are either forged or misinterpreted. My family's finances have always been fully transparent and legally compliant."
"But the account numbers match records from—"
"Records provided by whom? A former staffer with an axe to grind? This is exactly the kind of unverified speculation that passes for journalism these days."
Warren nods approvingly. "Good. Don't get defensive. Stay on offense. Make them justify their sources, not the other way around."
We run through every possible angle. The supposed shell companies. The campaign donations.
For each accusation, I have a response. By midnight, I'm exhausted but ready. I know the story inside and out. I know every allegation, every document, every supposed piece of evidence. And I know how to discredit all of it.
The journalist is the weakest point. Jamie Dean is no one. He’s just a tabloid writer with no track record of serious investigative work. That's the angle. That's how we win.
Warren pulls up Dean's file on the conference room screen. His photo is a standard headshot, sharp features, defiant expression. It’s the kind of face that thinks it's smarter than everyone else in the room. Smug little shit.
"He's unregistered," Warren notes. "Omega, but never joined the Bureau system. Mother was some kind of activist, apparently. Anti-Bureau, anti-establishment. The apple didn't fall far."
"Anything we can use?"
"We're working on it. His editor at the Scoop was cooperative. She's furious he went around her. Says he's ambitious and hard working. We haven’t found any colleagues yet with anything we can use, but we will." Warren scrolls through the file. "Noserious relationships that we can find. Lives with a roommate in a walk-up. Makes about forty thousand a year."
Forty thousand. I spent more than that on Georgia's birthday present. No wonder he’s gone after us. We’re worth a lot of money to him.
I study the photo. Jamie Dean stares back at me, chin slightly raised, like he's daring me to underestimate him.
"What about Point of Contention?" I ask. "Do we know if Dean will be there?"
