Page 10 of The Night Of
It all goes back to Belgium.I shook my head. “What does Belgium mean?”
“I don’t know. We met in Belgium. We were all in Brussels, scattered between the State Department and CIA and NATO headquarters. Looking back, that was one of the best times of my life,” he finished softly. “I don’t know what Steven meant, unless he was talking about the start of our friendship.”
“Could it be a code?”
“I don’t know.”
There were a million questions that needed to be answered, but only one was most pressing in my mind, right at that moment. “Why amIhere? Why are you talking to me and not to the FBI director—and the Secret Service director, the attorney general, the CIA director—and calling in every agent on the planet to investigate this? Why me?”
For a moment, there was something in Jonathan’s eyes: a darkness, a shadow. It passed, and his full intensity was fixed on me once again. “Someone murdered Steven in one of the most secure places on earth. I don’t know why, or how, or who. But if someone could murder him at Camp David, what’s to stop them from killing a second president?”
My heart stopped as I looked at the man in front of me. The man with the largest fucking target in the world bull’s-eyed squarely on him. Sure, there were always assassination threats, but most of those were barroom boasts or from schizophrenics who had zero ability to get close to the president.
If President Baker had been murdered inside Camp David, then the hard truth was that for someone to getthatclose to the president, the killer was deep within our own inner ring. Inside the bubble. They were close enough to get to Jonathan, too.
My breath shook as my hands made fists, opening and closing over and over. “Fuck,” I hissed. Fuck, if this was true, it could be anybody on the inside.
“We have to find out what really happened. We have to find out who did this.”
“But whyme?” I blurted out. “I’m thelastguy you—”
“You’re the only one I can trust.”
That shut me up. My jaw snapped closed, teeth cracking. In the whole world, there were four people who’d known Jonathan Sharp was gay, and one of them was now dead. He’d kept his secret all his life, brushing aside questions, insisting he was devoted and dedicated to his country and his job.
I knew because—
Hair sliding through my fingers, skin on skin, lips pressed together. Knees hitting the ground, sand biting into exposed skin. His voice, so different, pleading—
I squeezed my eyes closed and shook my head.Don’t think about it, ever.And it wasn’t even like I had all my memories of that night. Too much Jack Daniel’s, too much Jonathan Sharp, too much craving. Too little memory, only the bad parts as clear as fucking day.
Jonathan hadn’t wanted to see my face or hear my voice for three hundred and sixty-six days, and I didn’t blame him one fucking bit.
But there was only one agent in the entire Secret Service he could trust, apparently: the one who didn’t blab his secret. I did a whole bunch of other fucked-up things, but I didn’t ruin him publicly. Reputation is this town’s currency. I guess, to him, that meant he could trust me in some way.
I’d die for him in a heartbeat if it meant I could go back and undo what happened between us. If I could go back to before, when I didn’t know what he tasted like and he still slipped me secret, private smiles.
“I’m authorizing you to run an investigation,” Jonathan said. “Find out what happened to Steven.” I noticed the careful hedging, what he didn’t say, leaving room for me to come back and tell him, yes, I’m sorry, but yes, Steven did turn the gun on himself. “You report to me alone. This investigation is classified at the direction of the president—” His voice went thin as his throat closed. “Find out why—how—this happened, Sean. Anything, everything you need, I’ll clear. You have an open range and free fire.”
“And if I find out this is exactly what it looks like?”
Jonathan’s shoulders sagged. He curled forward, chin hitting his chest as he stared at the ground. He didn’t say anything. I waited. “I don’t believe he did it,” he said softly. “But if that’s what you find…” He sighed, his words trailing off into nothingness.
“I need access to the scene. And I need to be at the autopsy. I need to see the evidence, too. The gun. I’ll need White House records. The president’s phone calls. I’ll need to talk to the doc.” The White House physician, Dr. Fernandez. “I’ll need a warrant. Sealed, if you want to keep this from getting out.”
Jonathan nodded. “Done. Anything you need.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cell phone. It was a cheap burner, something you could buy at a gas station and load up with minutes from a vending machine. “Use this to call me. I have one, too. The number is saved for you.”
I took the phone from him, careful not to brush my hand against his. He didn’t react, as if having me near him again was just another weekday morning. As if seeing me again wasn’t everything he’d wanted and everything he’d feared, like it was for me. As if he didn’t care at all.
Maybe that hurt more than everything else. If he’d hated me, I’d understand. I’d deserve it. I’d welcome the agony of it, even though it could never match my own self-loathing.
But what did I do with his indifference?
My stomach curdled as I stood. “If President Baker was murdered, whoever did it won’t like me poking around and asking questions. Things could get dangerous very quickly. I don’t want you unsecured. Ever.”
“I’m staying at the Naval Observatory at least through the funeral. Beyond, if I can get those vultures on the Hill to stop complaining about it. Felicity…” Grief passed over him. For a moment, he looked lost, his jaw clenching and holding. “I’m not kicking her out of the Residence.”
Felicity Baker. First Widow of the United States.
