The Company She Kept by Archer Mayor

Fellows was killed who the VBI believes may have had a hand in Senator Raffner’s murder.”
    Gail stared at him, thoughts of Joe flooding her mind. “Is everyone else all right?”
    â€œOne of their agents was hit—Cila Lewis—but she’ll be fine. She was actually the one who killed Fellows in self-defense. He started shooting when they approached to question him. Some neo-Nazi.”
    â€œAnd they’re sure he was the man who killed Susan?” Gail asked.
    Here, the answer was vaguer. Joan Renaud supplied it, in her legal capacity. “Governor, I was in on this phone conversation. The police are obviously keeping a lid on things for the time being—although I suspect that will only last a few more hours—but they were focusing on Fellows for largely circumstantial reasons. Now that he’s dead, they’re doing their best to see if they can connect him to Senator Raffner’s death, but it’s far from certain.”
    Gail absorbed this, fighting the urge to ask questions she knew they couldn’t answer. She moved on, therefore, by asking, “What’s next?”
    Taking her cue, Rob continued. “The senator’s memorial services are scheduled for two days from now—one here and one in Brattleboro. It seemed the best way to reach most of her friends without putting too many on the road.”
    â€œLetters, cards, and e-mails have been coming in like nobody’s business,” Alice added. “All saying how much she meant to everyone.”
    Kayla Robinson leaned forward and placed a couple of sheets of paper on Gail’s desk, her strong, angular features poorly served by a severe haircut. “I came up with a few thoughts you might like to use in your speech. We assumed you’d want to say something.”
    â€œWhich doesn’t mean you’re obligated,” Rob said immediately. “Everyone would understand if you simply attended.”
    â€œNo,” Gail reassured them, picking up the sheets without looking at them. “I’ll speak. Thank you.”
    Kayla took advantage of the gesture to say, “Governor, along the lines of dealing with the press about this, was there anything said between you and Special Agent Gunther that we should know about?”
    Gail shifted her gaze back to the inscrutable Joan, who was writing a note to herself, or pretending to, eyes downcast. Gail imagined the conversation that had preceded this meeting, where they’d worked out how best to negotiate the emotional shoals surrounding her.
    â€œHe asked when Susan and I had last been in touch. I told him it was via text and that nothing of substance was discussed.”
    Kayla opened her mouth to follow up, but Renaud made a barely perceptible motion with her hand that stilled her. A silence settled onto the room, obliging Gail to add, “He also asked how I was holding up. We are old friends.” She hesitated, aware of the value of saying too little versus too much, but then said, “I told him that she’d been my keel—the love of a lifetime.”
    The stillness in the room reminded her of a time in childhood, when she’d taken a dare and grabbed hold of a rope strung horizontally over a pond. The goal had been to reach the far side dry-footed—moving hand-over-hand—but she’d tired and stopped, and gradually become aware of her ebbing strength, along with the guarantee that she’d eventually drop into the cold, dark water.
    She’d been paralyzed briefly, caught between inevitability and the growing realization that—although the outcome would be the same—she did have the power to willfully open her hands and choose action over fate. The fall to the water had thus been transformed from resignation to excitement, and her surfacing from the cold depths with arms held high afterward had been accompanied by a surprising sense of self-confidence.
    She watched the people before her