The Short Drop by Matthew FitzSimmons Page A

deal. Vaughn was widely credited for guiding a green and largely unknown Benjamin Lombard to the US Senate and for helping him win a second term in a landslide.
    From what Jenn could tell, Duke’s devotion to Lombard came at the expense of his son. The demands of the job caused Duke to spend long stretches in DC or on the road with the senator. It was a seven-days-a-week job, which meant that Duke spent most of his weekends with the Lombards.
    By all accounts, the Lombards treated Gibson like family; Duke and Gibson each had their own bedroom at both the senator’s home in Great Falls and his beach house at Pamsrest near the North Carolina border. However, Duke had been determined not to uproot his son from school, so during the week Gibson was often left home in Charlottesville. Duke’s sister, Miranda Davis, lived nearby and would look in on Gibson. But she had a family of her own, and as Gibson grew older she didn’t always get over to check on him. So, by the time he was twelve, Gibson Vaughn was effectively living on his own from Monday to Friday.
    A lot of children would resent being abandoned that way, but Gibson showed no signs of bitterness or anger. On the contrary, the young Gibson Vaughn quite clearly worshipped his father and had been determined to pull his weight. Gibson kept the household going while his father was away—organized the bills, cleaned the house, did yard work, and saw to minor upkeep. In a lot of ways, Gibson Vaughn raised himself.
    On the surface, he had done a good job of it. Good grades. No disciplinary record of any kind. That was if you excluded the time he was pulled over for doing forty-six in a twenty-five. Of course, it was understandable that a thirteen-year-old might not be crystal clear on speed limits. According to unofficial reports, because there was no official report, Duke and the senator had been on a fact-finding tour to the Middle East. Gibson had run out of milk. Rather than call and risk waking his aunt, the boy had done the only reasonable thing and driven himself to the supermarket.
    The arresting officer’s report stated that when stopped, the boy had politely asked, “Is there a problem, officer?” Gibson Vaughn had been perched atop The Collected Writings of Thomas Jefferson to help him see over the steering wheel. When asked where his parents were, Gibson had pled the Fifth. Afraid of embarrassing his father, he’d refused to speak until the police were able to track down his aunt.
    No charges were filed, and the entire incident became a piece of Virginia lore. Partly because the police chose not to pursue charges against a thirteen-year-old, but it didn’t hurt that Duke Vaughn was a close personal friend of the Charlottesville chief of police. It seemed there wasn’t much of anyone in the great commonwealth of Virginia with whom Duke Vaughn hadn’t been a close personal friend.
    That anecdote made Jenn smile. She’d been raised by her grandmother and knew what it was like to have to be self-sufficient at a young age. It could make you or it could isolate you, harden you. She would have liked that little boy—resourceful, proud, and a little foolhardy. They’d been a lot alike once, and she could still see traces of that boy now. The problem was she didn’t see enough to reassure her. Duke Vaughn’s suicide had seen to that.
    Duke Vaughn had driven home from Washington unexpectedly one Wednesday and hanged himself in his basement. Jenn flipped through the autopsy photographs that she’d culled from the conference room before Vaughn settled in. What kind of selfish prick hangs himself where he’ll be found by his fifteen-year-old son? No note, nothing. It was unforgivable.
    After his father’s death, Gibson Vaughn became a completely different person—hostile, defiant, and antisocial. The impact was clear as day. He withdrew from the computer science classes he was auditing at the University of Virginia. His grades plummeted. Three fights in two