voice booms through the room.
Her answer is simple. “Because I know you’re lying.”
That’s it. I need help. I turn around and head for the door.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
I don’t say a word.
“Don’t walk away from me!” she shouts.
I stop and turn around. “Does that mean you’re going to hear my side of the story?”
Locking her hands together, she drops them on her desk. “I think I’ve already heard everything I need.”
I reach for the door and pull it open.
“If you walk out of here, Michael, I promise you, you’ll regret it!”
It doesn’t slow me down.
“Get back here! Now!”
I step into the hallway and my world goes red. “Drop dead,” I say without turning around.
• • •
Ten minutes later, I’m sitting in my office, staring at the small television that rests on the ledge by the window. Every office in the OEOB is wired for cable, but I keep the set locked on channel twenty-five—where the menu for the White House Mess runs endlessly throughout the day.
Soup of the day: French onion.
Yogurt of the day: Oreo.
Sandwich selections: Turkey, roast beef, tuna salad.
One by one, they scroll up the screen; boring white letters against a royal blue background. Right now, it’s about all I can handle.
By the third rerun of the Yogurt of the day, I’ve come up with thirteen unarguable reasons to rip Caroline’s head off. From setting me up, to taking those potshots at my dad—what the hell is wrong with her? She knew what she was doing from the moment I walked in there. Slowly, surely, though, adrenaline fades into a quiet calm. And with that calm comes the realization that unless we have another conversation, Caroline’s going to take Simon’s version of the story and bury me with it.
For the fourth time in ten minutes, I check the toaster and dial Nora’s number. It says she’s in the Residence, but no one picks up. I hang up and dial another two extensions. Trey and Pam are just as hard to find. I beeped both of them as soon as I got back, but neither has checked in.
I scan the digital call log one last time, just to make sure they didn’t call while I was on the line. Nothing. No one’s there. No one but me. That’s what it comes down to. A world of one.
Inside the White House, the heat, vent, and cooling systems keep the air pressure of the mansion higher than normal for one simple reason: If someone attacks with a bio weapon or nerve gas, the poison-filled air will be forced outward, away from the President. Of course, the joke among the staff is that this by definition makes the White House the most high-pressured place to work. Right now, sitting in my office, it’s got nothing to do with air systems.
Feeling self-preservation surpass anger, I get up and head for the anteroom. As I open the door, I hear someone by the coffeemaker. If I’m lucky, it’ll be Pam. Instead, it’s Julian.
“Tastes like someone pissed in this,” he says, shoving his coffee mug toward my face.
“Well, it wasn’t me.”
“I’m not blaming you, Garrick—I’m making a point. Our coffee sucks.”
This isn’t the time to fight. “Sorry to hear that.”
“What’s wrong with you? You look like crap.”
“Nothing, just some stuff I’m working on.”
“Like what? Sucking up to more criminals? You were two for two this morning.”
I step past him and open the door. Although we tend to disagree on just about everything, I have to admit that our third officemate isn’t a bad person—he’s just a bit too intense for the general populace. “Enjoy the coffee, Julian.”
Walking back to Caroline’s office, I find the massive hallway longer than ever. When I first started working here, I remember being so impressed with how big everything seemed. Over time, it all became both manageable and comfortable. Today, I’m right back where I started.
Reaching Caroline’s office, I grab the doorknob without knocking. “Caroline, before you go nuts, let me
Her answer is simple. “Because I know you’re lying.”
That’s it. I need help. I turn around and head for the door.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
I don’t say a word.
“Don’t walk away from me!” she shouts.
I stop and turn around. “Does that mean you’re going to hear my side of the story?”
Locking her hands together, she drops them on her desk. “I think I’ve already heard everything I need.”
I reach for the door and pull it open.
“If you walk out of here, Michael, I promise you, you’ll regret it!”
It doesn’t slow me down.
“Get back here! Now!”
I step into the hallway and my world goes red. “Drop dead,” I say without turning around.
• • •
Ten minutes later, I’m sitting in my office, staring at the small television that rests on the ledge by the window. Every office in the OEOB is wired for cable, but I keep the set locked on channel twenty-five—where the menu for the White House Mess runs endlessly throughout the day.
Soup of the day: French onion.
Yogurt of the day: Oreo.
Sandwich selections: Turkey, roast beef, tuna salad.
One by one, they scroll up the screen; boring white letters against a royal blue background. Right now, it’s about all I can handle.
By the third rerun of the Yogurt of the day, I’ve come up with thirteen unarguable reasons to rip Caroline’s head off. From setting me up, to taking those potshots at my dad—what the hell is wrong with her? She knew what she was doing from the moment I walked in there. Slowly, surely, though, adrenaline fades into a quiet calm. And with that calm comes the realization that unless we have another conversation, Caroline’s going to take Simon’s version of the story and bury me with it.
For the fourth time in ten minutes, I check the toaster and dial Nora’s number. It says she’s in the Residence, but no one picks up. I hang up and dial another two extensions. Trey and Pam are just as hard to find. I beeped both of them as soon as I got back, but neither has checked in.
I scan the digital call log one last time, just to make sure they didn’t call while I was on the line. Nothing. No one’s there. No one but me. That’s what it comes down to. A world of one.
Inside the White House, the heat, vent, and cooling systems keep the air pressure of the mansion higher than normal for one simple reason: If someone attacks with a bio weapon or nerve gas, the poison-filled air will be forced outward, away from the President. Of course, the joke among the staff is that this by definition makes the White House the most high-pressured place to work. Right now, sitting in my office, it’s got nothing to do with air systems.
Feeling self-preservation surpass anger, I get up and head for the anteroom. As I open the door, I hear someone by the coffeemaker. If I’m lucky, it’ll be Pam. Instead, it’s Julian.
“Tastes like someone pissed in this,” he says, shoving his coffee mug toward my face.
“Well, it wasn’t me.”
“I’m not blaming you, Garrick—I’m making a point. Our coffee sucks.”
This isn’t the time to fight. “Sorry to hear that.”
“What’s wrong with you? You look like crap.”
“Nothing, just some stuff I’m working on.”
“Like what? Sucking up to more criminals? You were two for two this morning.”
I step past him and open the door. Although we tend to disagree on just about everything, I have to admit that our third officemate isn’t a bad person—he’s just a bit too intense for the general populace. “Enjoy the coffee, Julian.”
Walking back to Caroline’s office, I find the massive hallway longer than ever. When I first started working here, I remember being so impressed with how big everything seemed. Over time, it all became both manageable and comfortable. Today, I’m right back where I started.
Reaching Caroline’s office, I grab the doorknob without knocking. “Caroline, before you go nuts, let me
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