Page 23 of The Night Of
“When was the last time you saw your husband?”
Her eyes flooded again. Her lip trembled. I nearly called it quits, nearly bailed, backed away on my knees and apologized for causing her so much pain. Was I responsible for everyone’s pain? Hers, Jonathan’s, and even President Baker’s, if he felt so isolated he had no one to reach out to? What if I had still been at his right hand? Shame closed its jaws around my throat, its teeth digging into my jugular.
“A half hour before it happened,” Felicity whispered. She made an effort to calm herself, dabbing at her eyes, swallowing down her sobs. “We’d had a fight. We never fight. But that night… He was so frustrated and angry.”
“At what?”
“The world. The Hardacre disappearance was tearing him apart. He didn’t know what to do. No matter what choice he made, Americans were going to die. That was killing him—” She stopped, her hands covering her mouth as she realized what she’d said. After a moment, she continued, wiping her eyes as fresh tears slipped free. “He was convinced Russia was involved. That they had Hardacre, or had helped him escape.”
“Was there anything else bothering him? Any sudden shocks?” Could it have been news he couldn’t bear, the exposure of a secret so terrible neither Jonathan nor Felicity knew anything about it?
Felicity shook her head.
“Can you tell me about your relationship? I know what I saw when I was on the detail, but in every relationship, there’s a private life that no one else knows. What was your relationship like with your husband?”
She smiled, wistful, and gazed out the window. If she’d been offended by my question, she didn’t show it. “We were so in love,” she whispered. “Marriage is hard work, but loving Steven was effortless. He was a good man, and I loved that about him. I loved how genuine he was. How caring. He still called me his bride, twenty years later.” Tears rolled freely down her cheeks again. “We had our struggles, like every couple does. But Steven loved me, Sean, as deeply as a man can love a woman. And I loved him. I loved him so goddamn much—”
I waited, looking down. I’d spoken to families left behind before, but never like this. Never side by side on the couch, watching tears form and fall, quiver on her delicate jawline before crashing to her soaked wrists.
“Can I get you some water?” I finally choked out. “Or tea? Can I—” I twisted, searching for one of the ever-present stewards to come and rescue me, bring something for the First Lady. I couldn’t see anyone. The Residence seemed abandoned.
She shook her head. Wiped her nose.
The only way to get through this was to barrel on. “What did you two fight about that night?”
She sighed and shook her head, regret staining the air that surrounded her. Had her last words to her husband been ones of anger? What was it like when one moment you had everything, and the next, everything you loved had been destroyed?
I squirmed. I knew what that felt like.
“I was annoyed with him and his attitude. He’d been surly for several days. That Hardacre thing…” She rubbed her forehead, wincing. “I was getting on him for being an ass to Andrew. Andrew isn’t just the prime minister, he’s—hewas—Steven’s brother-in-law. You know that.” Her lips thinned. “We had dinner the night before the G8, Andrew, Steven, and I. Annette usually comes, but she couldn’t make the trip this time. She had a meeting in Paris she couldn’t miss.” Felicity sighed. Loneliness pulsed off her, darker than a shadowed moon. “Steven could barely hold a conversation with Andrew. He was… angry. Withdrawn. Sullen.” She shook her head. “I was sick of it, and of seeing him behave that way in front of the rest of the G8. I let him have it.” She tried, so hard, to hold it together. Her face went tight, and she squeezed her eyes closed, holding her breath until she had to suck in a ragged, hiccuping gasp. “God, I’m such a horrible wife,” she breathed. “I was just nagging him, pushing him. I didn’t see—”
“No one did.” I reached for her. Ran my hand down her thin shoulder and squeezed her elbow. She lay her hand over mine, sliding our fingers together. “Did you take a shower that night?”
Felicity nodded. “I was trying to get away from his attitude. I was done with the argument, but he wanted to keep fighting. I thought he just wanted to be mad and make everyone around him mad, too. I took a shower, and then I took a walk.”
“How soon after your shower did you leave?”
She frowned. “I dressed and left. I wanted to get out of there.”
“Did he come into the bathroom while you were showering?”
“I have no idea.”
“Where was the president when you left?”
“He was sitting on the side of the bed, glaring at the floor.”
“Where did you go?”
“At first, I wandered. I just wanted to be out of that cabin.”
“Were you at the pool at all that night?”
“The pool?” She frowned. Shook her head. “I don’t think so, not after dinner and the reception on the patio… No, I was going to Hickory to get a drink.” Her hand rose, covering her mouth. “You don’t think… you don’t think he did it because I left, and—”
“No,” I said. “I don’t.” And I didn’t. Whatever had happened to President Baker, Felicity taking a walk to cool down after an argument hadn’t been the cause. I’d seen their marriage up close, had seen the love they had for each other.
So how could you leave her alone, Mr. President? How could you do that, and leave her behind, when you loved her so much?
